


That Familiar Feeling

by Mychelle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, BAMF John, Cat Sherlock, F/F, Familiars, Inspired by..., M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Racism, Supernatural Elements, Warlocks, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-20 15:36:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2433983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mychelle/pseuds/Mychelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The acceptance of magic and non-human entities has been apart of society since the middle ages. With the historical event of the Black Death in 1328, it was only then that humanity as a whole had released their blindfold, and truly decided to look at their world in its more darker light. Where the dark ages of before had only hinted at, in the mere span of twenty three years of the deadly plague humans had not only learned about magic, and familiars, but were able to put a hold on the death spree of one insane warlock at the cause. There are still only theories of why that particular warlock decided to hold a grudge that ended one third of the human and familiar population, but with their sacrifice came truth, knowledge, and of course, power.</p>
<p>Story's Theme Song: "The Love Cats" By: The Cure.<br/>05/13/2015: Now with Cover art! : http://i.imgur.com/KSvE38v.jpg</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fate is a cruel mistress.

If a story about John H. Watson were to exist, or a biography rather, he would be the first to tell you that you might as well skip a major portion of his earlier life. Born to a normal human family, a normal human mother and father, a normal if not aggravating older sister, and to say much else would be a feat of strength at best.

It was during these earlier years though that even as a child John felt restless. It wasn't as if he had a bad childhood, hardly. But that normal feeling that eventually reached him to wonder about things having more substance, his own personal place in the world, was a feeling that not only never really left, but seemed to continue to affect him long after most normal people would have accepted their lot in life.

After grammar school in Chelmsford he decided that he should make a true attempt to better himself and ended up applying to King's College in London to study medicine. John never had to struggle, and even found himself from time to time feeling accomplished with his studies. He was learning to be a doctor, and what else could there be more accomplished than that? From there he went to Broomfield Hospital Chelmsford and the University College Hospital to work. He was doing something good.

Too bad he was completely _bored out of his bloody mind._

That restless feeling never did leave, no matter how much John attempted to ignore it. So after much thought, and a rather heated conversation with both his parents and his sister, John found himself deployed to Afghanistan after he had signed up for the British Army. Trained at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, he could use his medical skills while attempting to fill that personal useless void. London was full of its own doctors, so why not use his skills where they were needed most? It might very well be dangerous, almost certainly so.

John found himself looking forwards to it.

Here was where he really would want his biography started. John started to actually feel like himself, among the dangers his new position of Captain would give him. It might have taken three years to get to this point, but London was far away, and the feel of a gun in his hand while he both protected and saved the lives of fellow men among the warm sand and hot sun was exactly what he needed. Maybe he couldn't save them all, but John Watson was actually making a difference.

And then the bullet took everything important to him.

* * *

John didn't like remembering back to that day, he would rather much remember the better times of his career, but with ups came downs. If the middle of Afghanistan, in the middle of a full shootout weren't already a recipe for disaster than John was certainly again, in the middle of a down rather than an up.

Here was where he normally excelled, but today was not turning into one of those good days where everybody went back to camp with hardy back slaps and laughter about a job well done. Instead he found himself crouched under a sand dune with a bleeding soldier that John already knew was way too far gone to be saved today. He wasn't about to tell him that though.

“John, I…” David was interrupted with another round of coughing that splattered both more blood on himself and John who hovered over him, desperately trying to cover the bullet wound that had went straight through the other man’s stomach. There was just too much blood, and John had already went through most of what medical supplies he could keep on hand. He barely heard the bullets whizzing over both their heads as he could do little else but look down at his wounded charge.

“Dave, its going to be alright, we are going to make it through this.” He said, ushering up enough courage to give the dying man a lopsided smile, even as the blood continued to gush through his fingers.

“Your a _shit_ liar, doc.” David simply laughed, which again ended up simply causing him to cough while his eyes rolled about in their sockets. He was having trouble keeping focused. “John, you need to…”

But it was already becoming too much for the younger, and John couldn't bring himself to lie again to the man. If there was anything a dying man deserved, it was a little bit of honesty in the end. So what did John say in his defense? Not a bloody thing. He did notice the very last chance that David had to focus his vision despite the current pain he was in, and it wasn't John that he was looking at, but above them.

John darted his vision upwards to find they had been spotted by a flyer-type. Overly large black wings gave the crazed Familiar flight even in the middle of random bullets being sprayed about the area, and the non-human was giving John his best grin of triumph. Under bronzed skin that stretched along his moving shoulder blades with every beat of his wings, the enemy raised his gun and pointed it straight at John. It was about the clearest shot that any gunner could have got under the circumstances.

John knew better than to run, if he wasn't going to get shot by the damn bird hybrid then his attempt to flee to a better position was just going to get him shot by someone, _something_ , else. He glared back at the other’s grin, and went to grab for his own side arm with a bloodied hand even if he knew he wasn't going to be spared the few seconds to actually fire back.

Instead, fate drew a completely different hand than the one John had pictured for himself in that moment in time. A lucky shot caught the Familiar in the wing, and the non-human let out a screech of both pain and frustration as his shot that he had decided to take in the same instance he himself was shot wasn't as perfect as he pictured it to be.

John didn't even get the chance to lift his arm before he was being sent backwards onto his arse, then shoulder first into the sand. The pain didn't register at first, per the usual, but while John was looking up at the hazy blue sky he knew it was coming. What he didn't know, was how electric the feeling would be as his shoulder pulsed out his life blood and he felt his muscles constrict in both a wave of said pain, and another injection of adrenalin into his bloodstream. A blood stream that was quickly beginning to cover the sand to his side and back in a warmth that did not even remotely compare to the heat of the sand under him.

John had a fleeting moment where he thought that he could see random sparkles behind his eyes, blinking into his vision as he attempted to calculate exactly what had happened. But with another pulse, all John could remember after that was a blackness, with a strange crackling sound in his ears that was just as quickly enveloped into the nothingness that came over him.

* * *

Only bits and pieces remained of whatever happened between that point and this one. He mostly remembers brief moments where he thought he could hear people yelling, and the color white. Maybe there had been actual objects in the white, because he was fairly sure there had been movement of some sort, but with most of his five senses betraying him, the color was really all that remained as a logical standpoint in an otherwise senseless time period.

John was still in a very white area when he awoke without the blackness of unconsciousness just a few inches behind to take him again. He was currently located in a hospital bed of sorts, though this one seemed far rickety than he would have liked. The thing looked like it had been pieced together with plastic, and with a slight knock of his knuckles against the side bar to his left he realized that is exactly what the bed was made out of. Instead of simply being painted white, he only received a dulled sound to his knocking, indicating it to be made from hard plastic.

His tired mind was still trying to comprehend why he had been placed in this odd location when he attempted to sit up, and that was a bloody insane idea. Every muscle burned as if he had been shot all over, and not just his currently wrapped up left shoulder. Hissing he lifted his right arm and used his palm to cover his eyes, gritting his teeth together. It was right at that moment the doorway to his room opened, and what was obviously a nurse was peeking her head around the door-frame to look at him.

John didn't notice it at first, he was still biting back the pain as it slowly dimmed back down to a manageable level. Giving a small shake to his head he let his arm lower and found himself looking at the nurse that had appeared. The two of them looked at each other as if deer, both caught in each others different headlights. It was John though that broke the tension and looked around to the white medical equipment, the IV that was strangely pulled as far away from him as possible with a long cord of clear plastic before it creeped into his arm. The softly beeping heart monitor, also pulled to the far side of the room, yet he seemed to still be attached with the cords running under his gown to his chest, it was all familiar to him as far as equipment but…

“What in bloody hell is going on?” John suddenly asked the nurse still gaping at him.

The nurse blinked at him, and jerked her head back out of sight with the door shutting behind her.

“Great…” John sighed, letting his body slump back against the bed. Wincing when he realized that that too, was a horrible idea, and all he could do was simply groan his frustration to the white walls.

* * *

John hadn't been trying to keep time, but he was sure it took long enough for a real doctor to finally have found its way to his room. By then, he had been pondering just removing himself from the bed and the equipment himself, and was going through his personal pep speech inside his head to deal with the pain that it was going to cause him to do so. Instead, he was mentally interrupted by his room’s door opening and closing to let in a white gowned doctor holding a clipboard and stepping to the side of his bed.

“Glad to see you awake finally, Doctor Watson.” The man using his medical title while peering to the slightly glowering man in the bed before him. John was annoyed enough by now to bite into this other medical professional with questions on his current state, but he knew just how badly patients that were actually doctors themselves could be, and did his best to narrow the destructive thoughts below humility.

“Glad to be awake, Doctor…?” He let the question trail off.

“Concade.” The man finished for him.

“...Concade, I do not want to seem pushy here but, I’m sure you know I have questions.” It was about as polite as John could muster right now.

“And I am here to answer those questions to the best of my ability.” He had taken a quick look around the room to look for what John thought was a chair, only to find the room had been stripped of anything else the doctor could sit in. Instead, the man looked back to John.

“You were shot, as you obviously have figured out. Entrance wound to the left sternum, the bullet itself fractured and I wish I could tell you the back looks as lovely as the front. Surrounding muscle and tissue has been cleaned of infection, though may continue to cause you pain even after the healing process.”

“Wait,” John would have lifted his left hand if his entire arm had not been strapped to his chest. “Infection? Just how long have I been here?”

“It has been approximately…” The doctor paused to look down at his clipboard. “Two months since your incident.”

“ _Two months?!_ ” Absolutely insane. There was just...no way. “I got shot in the shoulder and I’m just now waking up and your telling me I have been out of it for an entire two months?!” Yeah, humility all but forgotten.

“John.” Gone was the professional tone, and the other doctor had quickly replaced it with more concern. John was having none of that.

“Tell me _exactly_ , what is going on.” John wasn't asking a question, and by the visible swallow that caused the other man’s adam’s apple to bob, he had got the point.

“John,” Concade started again, “There were unforeseen...difficulties involving your healing process that the facility on which you were located had been unable to deal with. You were then transported to here, so that we could treat you.”

“And here is…?”

“Whittington Hospital.”

John just stared.

Slowly, as if he were dealing with a wild animal, Doctor Concade made his way around the bed to the far side of the room where a window was located. Its white curtains had been closed this entire time, so John had not taken much notice, but now as the doctor pulled on their string to have the curtains open in a soft swishing of heavily clothed fabric he indicated outside with a slight tilt of his head.

“Welcome home, you are back in London.”

John continued to stare.

* * *

The doctor had got a nurse who checked on them shortly after to find him a chair, from which John noticed that the man had did his best to keep to low hushed tones in his request so that John wouldn't completely hear the conversation, but he did notice that the chair that was brought in was unlike a normal sitting chair that should have already been located in his room. This one appeared to simply be plastic one, more suitable on someone’s back porch than a hospital. This, Concade sat next to the bed and then took his seat to look at John.

John, was not a happy patient. Not that he had been very happy before, but now he could barely look at the other doctor without glaring. He was back in London, not in Afghanistan where most of his intact memories were located. His job, his platoon, everything was back there, and John knew well enough that if he was back home, he wasn't about to be getting back to his life any time soon. Oh no, John was not happy. No sir.

“Now I can't give you all the details as far as your job position goes, though I am sure you already have a good idea of that…” Concade was attempting to explain.

John glared. John was not happy.

“Um…” Concade took another pause to swallow nervously. “Anyways, what I can do is explain exactly why you needed to be moved. Though I think it would be better for me to show you, first.”

John raised an eyebrow, refusing to say anything.

Concade took the moment to reach down into a pocket of his white coat, pulling out a thick blue rubber glove, and of all things, a metal fork. John leaned slightly in his direction, looking at the two objects in scrutiny. Concade slipped the glove on and held the fork with his now gloved hand while using his free one to make sure the glove was snuggly fit by pulling on the edge near his wrist. After, he pointed the forked end of the utensil in John’s direction and gave it a small twitch to indicate he wanted John to take it.

John rolled his eyes, but decided to play along, and reached to take the fork with his free right hand. Before he even had a chance to grab it, sparks flew from the tips of his nails and into the fork itself.

“Fucking hell!” That had actually _hurt!_

Smarting, John yanked his hand back away from the utensil in both pain and shock. Concade didn't seem surprised though, as the glove itself saved him from getting shocked as well, and was simply watching John for a further reaction.

John could barely get his breathing under control for a few seconds, before he growled at the other doctor between clenched teeth.

“What the fuck are you playing at?”

“I wish I could tell you it was all for a joke, John.” Concade mentioned quietly as he twirled the fork into his fingers to hold it up for John to see. “But that is exactly why you were moved. Your company was unable to handle the reaction caused by your body coming in contact with conductive metal. Nor were there any other places they could bring you for medical care that could provide the service without causing both you, and other people harm. Thus, you were flown back to London as quickly as they could, though not before infection had already set in.”

“I still do not understand…” John’s angered tone was quickly shifting to a more quieter, worried one.

“You mean to say that you had no prior knowledge of such a reaction before the incident?” Concade was leaning closer now, watching John for what he suspected was an act to defend himself at the accusation. “The army believed you had lied on your forms about your magical level, and hid it until the accident brought about the inability to do so.”

“I wasn't hiding anything!” John raised his tone back up, though the anger had left it completely. He was more astonished than anything else at this point. They think he had lied?! “I don't know what this,” John motioned to himself, “or _that_ ,” then motioned to the fork still in Concade’s hand, “is!”

Concade didn't say anything at first, continuing to watch John’s reaction and appeared to be mentally deciding on the next course of words as to believe if what his patient was saying was true or not. Finally, he looked down to his clipboard while putting the fork back into his pocket. After, he grabbed a pen that had been clipped on the side and began writing down quick notes.

John wanted to say something, defend himself further, he had done nothing against the law. But he was left with the feeling of being unjustifiably accused, and kept silent.

“When you were brought to our location,” Concade continued after writing. “We had to do our best to deal with your situation without bringing further complications to your position. We even had to find a non-metal needle to get that in.” He pointed with his pen to the IV line that was coming out of John’s right arm. “Our facility is normally prepared for the differing situations with patients of the magical persuasive, but even yours was a more complicated case.”

“I am not a warlock.” John stated, clearly. Or at least he attempted to.

“I am afraid I have already disproved that statement.” Concade said in reply. “Regardless, we believe that the electrical discharges were what complicated your injury. From what we were told, your heart actually stopped on the way here, and restarted itself on its own, twice, without the normal foreseen complications that it would have caused to anyone else. They were afraid to even get you on a plane, though had little choice if they were going to save your life. Luckily, your comrades were able to provide enough blood for a quick transfusion, though that could have very well led to the infection of the wound in the first place.”

John opened his mouth to respond, but found he had been struck mute. He really did not know what to say to this news. He was lucky to be alive, yes. But, all of this, he didn't know how to take. Concade let out a small sigh on noticing John’s silent reaction, he reached to rub at a temple before continuing.

“You are perfectly stable now though, once we had dealt with the problications. While you were under, what tests we were able to perform has listed you as a level four warlock.”

“Four?” John asked quickly, at the last statement.

“Yes, four. I assume you know the numbered system we have to indicate magical awareness?”

John knew, the other doctor hadn't needed to ask. Even though John was human, ( _was human_ ) he had needed to learn the five levels so that when a magical patient needed attending, the current level could give an indication of what procedures needed to be put in place for that particular patient. John knew as a human he was already listed as a level one, without magical awareness what-so-ever. Levels two and three were the most common with what most perceived as a normal state for most magical users. Four on the other hand, was for the more enhanced levels where a state of awareness was more prominent. Five, were the users that were deemed as an actual threat in their talents. John shuddered to think about this, as he knew that level fives were not even allowed in the general public.

“Anyways, we are going to have to keep you a bit longer.” Concade was simply moving on from his question, and John was quick to pick up on this. “You are now healing nicely, but with the added... _condition_ of your situation, we are going to have to take extra precautions before allowing you to leave the hospital.”

“You're going to keep me here to study me.” John stated to this, and even as strong willed as he was, he couldn't help the slight tremor that crept into his tone.

“No, not at all.” Concade quickly replied. “As a late-bloomer of your age,” John winced at this. “we will be needing to make sure that you are able to function at the best of your ability. We can't simply let you out without you sorting out every electrical device you stroll past can we?”

John knew the man was attempting at a small joke, but he was oblivious to the humor itself. Instead of replying, he laid himself back further into the bed and looked to stare up at the ceiling silently. This was a lot for him to take in, especially when his clearest memory was thousands of miles away.

“You are going to be just fine, John.” The doctor lifted a gloved hand to place it to his patient’s shoulder. “Really.”

“Yeah, really...” John was barely able to mutter, not responding to the comforting touch in the slightest.


	2. Waking up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world has changed greatly since then, and human/familiar society has blended into a co-existing organism all its own. Magic users are not nearly as common as they used to be, with only theories of the world’s natural fading magic to lean towards a cause. Witches and Warlocks are still born amongst humans, though their magical talent is not near what the stories of old say they should be capable of. Years are usually spent attempting to even remotely achieve a regular standard of magical prowess, and both Witches and Warlocks are normally stuck with whatever their particular talent decides they excel in. More powerful magic-users are kept in strict check among the governments.

John woke up in a startled fashion that most would have been lead to believe he had been having a nightmare about his time in the war. Sadly that wasn't the case this time around, and John was more disgusted by the fact he had been startled awake simply by a dream that had been replaying his earlier memories of returning to London. Even if his nightmares of the war turned into phantom yelling in the middle of the night, to be awaken and disturbed by something so mundane was far more embarrassing in the ex-soldier's mind.

Propped up on his elbows with the covers of his bed twisted about him, John gave a small sigh to the quiet walls of his current bedsit. Closing his eyes he took a moment to attempt to deal with the quiet the room gave him, how it etched itself into the detailed lines of his current situation. It was a defining factor that John wished wouldn't remind him of well...anything.

With a quiet grunt of discomfort he sat up, reaching down to untwist his bed covers from his legs, and swung both around to the floor at his side. Instinctively reaching down to his right knee and giving the appendage a small squeeze with a wince. He had been told that the pain he was feeling in his leg was nothing but a figment of his imagination, or more or less had been told that in far kinder words. John was a realist if anything though, and imaginary or not, his bum leg was still causing him pain.

Before he reached over to the cane propped against his bed though, he first reached over to the small bedside table where little else stayed besides the black pair of gloves had laid from the night before where he had sat them. Holding the soft material up to his face he gave the extra cloth a slight glower before he took the few moments to slip the offending pair onto both of his hands, tugging at the cut-away edge on his wrists. He remembered shredding most of the material once he had been given a box of the gloves, for they could have easily been pulled up to his elbows before. John didn't like the extra constricting feeling, and had taken matters into his own hands to shred most of the pairs down to his wrists.

He rolled his eyes at the memory of the fight he had with the scissors he had used to do so, having to wear a pair of the gloves to even allow himself to make the other pairs more comfortable without shocking himself in the process. There had been cursing involved in the act.

Finally he could reach for his cane, and with his stronger right arm holding most of his body’s weight he pushed himself to his feet and hobbled over to the one window he had. With his free hand he lifted away the curtain from the glass so he could peer out at the city, mentally letting the image wash over his thoughts of all the _important_ things he had to do today.

Even John’s personal thoughts were betraying him with their sarcastic undertones. With a shake of his head to clear those corrosive thoughts, he turned and made his way into the kitchen to make himself some tea. It was one of the few daily routines he found could at least prepare himself for the day in a manner that felt more homely, and soon enough he had a hot cup to take over to his desk, sipping before he placed it down first. Leaning his body to the side he slipped into his chair and placed the blasted cane to the side.

Opening the side drawer, he very carefully reached in with his right hand to grab his laptop, the gloves keeping him from wiping the entire thing clean with an efficient shock to the mostly metal device. As much as he hated the gloves, they did serve an important purpose right now. It didn't keep John from giving another glare to the rubber in-lined material though.

John didn't even give the firearm that also shared the drawer with the laptop a second glance as he sat the machine on the desk in front of him and then re-closed the drawer. Lifting the laptop’s lid and hitting the on button let the machine slowly hum to life, and with a few single clicks he found himself looking at the page he knew was already titled “The personal blog of John H. Watson.” with little else but a blank slate under the bigger letters.

A hand went to rub at his upper calf muscle without even noticing it, for John seemed more intent on studying the white blank page in front of him. His tea was also forgotten, in that moment John found himself slowly going back in time to a few days before where he had been in that room with that irritating psychotherapist’s office.

* * *

“So, how is your blog going, John?”

Ella, his psychotherapist slash magical awareness Councillor, sat partially to the front and left side of him in that overly large chair of hers. A yellow notebook lay across her crossed legs lap while she idly tapped a pen to softly rasp against the fibers of the paper.

John on the other hand was taking up a corner of her patient’s couch. Front legs drawn together with his cane leaning against them, both gloved hands propped up on the top of the offending crutch. The last few weeks John had learned to mostly keep his actual thoughts to himself, for he found that his attitude since the incident had leaned more towards the darker turn that life had directed him to.

“Yeah, good.” John replied to her question. Though with her pause afterwards, he found himself clearing his throat awkwardly. He attempted for a stronger reply. “Very good, yeah.”

“You haven't written a single word yet, have you?” Ella pierced through his attempt to salvage what little personal respect John had for himself at the time being, all the while not even looking at her patient as she scribbled on the paper in her lap.

“Wait.” John was a little preoccupied to notice her question, not that he actually wanted to answer it in the first place. “You just wrote ‘Still has trust issues’, there.”

“See what I mean?” She kindly looked up from her notes to give him a practiced smile. “Reading my writing upside down.”

John blinked at her accusation, but was quickly to cover himself with a small returning, and none-the-less practiced smile.

“John…” Ella then leaned forwards, folding her arms atop the notepad in what John easily noticed as her attempting to hide what else she had written besides that last sentence. “I know things seem hard right now. A soldier back in civilian life, along with your found awareness. I think writing about everything that happens to you will not only help your mental state, but can also help you learn more about your abilities and give you a better idea on how to adapt to them in your life. I think writing will honestly help you in both those aspects.”

John didn't answer at the first, simply looking at his therapist as he felt his gloved fingers clenching onto the top of his cane, a few mere inches from the alloy tipped cap that was an adding factor to a lot of his problems. He then looked down to his clenched fingers, watching the material of the gloves scrunch about his knuckles in a silent show of frustration, and gave the slightest shake of his head.

“But _nothing_ happens to me. Not anymore.” A small lapse in his ‘everything is fine’ stature.

* * *

After this mornings completely irrelevant calculating of today’s _many_ uninteresting activities he just must perform, John found himself taking a stroll through Russel Square Park. With _so much_ nothing to do and no where to be he was attempting to hold a brisk pace, as much as a limping old man could hold with his dignity dying with every half shuffled step, but by bloody damn if John was going to let anyone see him as weak. Regardless of how he currently felt.

“John? Hey! John!”

At the sound of his name, John was brought out of his self pitying thoughts to turn his body around at the noise. Finding himself suddenly in the presence of Mike Stamford, an old acquaintance of his.

“I thought that was you, John Watson.” Mike was pulling himself up from a bench and heading in his direction with a welcoming smile of remembrance. “We were at Bart’s together, remember?”

John was really not in the mood to converse about ‘old times’, but he was also polite enough to at least grasp the hand that Mike struck out in his direction, giving it a firm shake.

“Yes, Mike. Sorry, yes. Hello.” Smooth John… “Hi.”

Mike’s grin didn't falter as he gave his own chest a small pat, afterwards throwing both his hands out partially to his sides with a further stance in his legs to indicate himself.

“Yeah, I know I know, I got fat!” He’d laugh, before looking to John with a more studying expression. “I heard you went way out of town for awhile there, getting shot and all that nasty business, what happened?”

“I uh…got shot?” John didn't really know how else to reply.

The two of them found themselves looking at one another silent for a pause after John’s answer. It wasn't as if there was a better reply to that question other than simply stating the fact, and while John glanced downwards awkwardly after, Mike cleared his throat.

“So...Coffee?”

Well, John was fairly sure he could fit that into his _busy_ schedule.

* * *

Some short time later, with two added coffees to their floundering conversation, John found himself sitting on the bench that Mike had been occupying earlier. With his cane placed to the side and both gloved hands wrapped about his cup he was quietly sipping with his old friend doing much of the same.

“So uh...you are still at Bart’s?” John eventually asked after another of the many graceless pauses he had found himself in as far as conversation went these days.

“I am teaching now, you know.” Mike responded. “Young, bright little things they are. Remember? Like we used to be.” A strong laugh was added in at this point. “I hate them so much!”

The laugh was rather addictive, and John found himself giving a small chuckle alongside.

“What about you though?” Mike leaned forwards and gave John a sideways questioning glance. “Are you staying in town, then? Just until you get sorted?”

“I can't really afford London on a army pension…” John muttered a reply, the laughter all but forgotten in the span of a question that only reminded him of life’s current events.

“But you couldn't bare to be anywhere else.” John did his best not to wince at Mike’s statement. “Least, not the John Watson I know.”

John removed his right hand from his coffee and lowered it down to rub at his knee, not that he actually noticed doing so though. Instead, he was left pondering Mike’s sentence with a comparison between then and now.

“I’m...not really _the_ John Watson from…”

But he couldn't finish the sentence. Both of them ended up in the same inept communication gap, with Mike looking to his friend with a troubled expression, while John did his best to avoid it all costs.

“But, couldn't Harry help at all?” Mike eventually asked more softly.

John couldn't help the sarcastic harsh laugh that escaped him at the very thought of Harry helping him.

“Yeah, _sure._ That is going to happen sometime this century.”

“Well, what about a flatshare, huh?” Mike shrugged. “Something like that?”

With the hand that had been subconsciously rubbing at his knee, John swished out his fingers and motioned to his body while closing his eyes and lifting his shoulder in a half mimicked shrug of Mike’s own.

“Come on Mike...who would want a flatshare with me? Really?”

With only Mike’s laugh after the question, John opened one left eye and regarded him with a brow raised above the other. Noticing his companion giving him a knowing grin, before receiving a brushing of knuckles at Mike’s playful shove in response to his questioning scrutiny of his expression.

“You, my friend. Are not the only person who has said that to me today.”

John regarded him with that announcement with a few short blinks. Eventually, leaning back against their bench and tilting his head slightly.

“Well, who was the first then?”

* * *

Walking through Bart’s was a little stroll down memory lane for John, even if it had been a few years since he had actually graced the old walls. There was something slightly comforting about the familiar building even though its minor changes, and when Mike knocked on the door to the laboratory John was very intent on browsing around at both the new and old equipment the room provided to add to his older memories of the room itself.

“Well, it is a bit different from the last time I was…” But, John was struck mute mid-sentence by a slight glance from the laboratory’s other occupant. Sitting in a stool by one of the tables with a pipette in hand, was a tall gentleman with a mess of dark curls atop his head. It was the bare grace of the blue eyes that ended up with John pausing in mid shuffle as he stepped into the room, blinking. “...here.”

“Oh you have _no_ idea.” Mike smirked in front of him, as he placed himself towards the middle of the room, hands placed on his hips and looking quite smug.

“Mike, your phone please? Mine has no signal in here.” The tall dark man questioned Mike, though did little else to acknowledge either of their presence once he had gone back to whatever had originally been his attention catching experiment.

“There is a land-line in here, you know.” Smugness erased, Mike had turned to look at the other gentleman with a slight exasperated glance.

With a free hand used to wave away the solution, the man did little else but keep to his work.

“I prefer texting.”

“Well you are just out of luck, I left it in my coat.” Mike responded after a few pats to his empty pockets.

John looked between the two of them for the short conversation, but with a half-shrug he reached into his own back pocket to grasp the heavily plastic phone he knew he’d placed there this morning before leaving his bedsit. Not that he had many people to call these days.

“Er...I got mine?” He held out the device towards the un-named man’s direction, causing the fellow to finally look back up from his work with a slight tilt of his head that caused most of his dark strands to follow suit in the movement.

“Hm. Thank you?”

John continued to hold out the phone, suddenly feeling more exposed with his cane to his left side mostly holding his weight, he didn't feel like indulging in the few hops he’d have to take to actually place the device in the other man’s hand. Luckily enough though, the man decided to shift off of his stool with a patting down of his large coat before stepping to John and taking the outstretched phone to quickly flip open the top and start clicking while turning away.

“This is a old friend of mine, John Watson.” Mike introduced him, his friend stepping closer and giving John’s shoulder a friendly pat to indicate him directly to the other man who was still tapping away at his phone with one hand.

“Afghanistan, or Iraq?” The deeper tone of the dark man’s voice seemed to bring John back around as he blinked and attempted to lean forwards to see exactly what was being done to his phone. The bloody thing even barely worked when he wanted to, but the other man seemed to be handling the older piece of equipment just fine. After, he spared a quick look to Mike to find the man grinning again with that same smug look from before, giving a slight twitch to his hand to prompt John to answer.

“I'm sorry?” John eventually found a answer to the question in the form of another, he had absolutely no idea what was going on here.

Briefly the other man paused in his clicking to look up at John under a few fallen curls with that same blue gaze from before. For some reason, John suddenly felt the urge to swallow, but…

“Afghanistan, how did…”

Instead, he was interrupted by the door behind him opening, and he had to almost stumble out of the way as a smaller woman crossed into the room with eyes little else but where the man stood, still with John’s phone. He perked up instantly at the woman’s entrance.

“Ah! Molly, coffee. Excellent.”

Flipping the phone shut, he simply handed it back towards John while using his other free hand to grab the mug the woman was holding out towards him. Peering down at it with a satisfied look before he looked back up to whom John knew now as Molly, leaning forwards a little and putting another inquisitive tilt to his head. “You were wearing lipstick before?”

Molly, who had before was looking rather pleased with herself with getting the beverage, instantly darkened at the question, her earlier smile just barely cracking.

“It...it wasn't really working out for me.”

“Oh?” The man asked over the top of his cup as he had taken a sip during her explanation, standing back to his full overly tall height and watching her with what could best be described as a ‘I thought so’ expression. “Well it was an improvement. Your mouth looks tiny now.”

Molly blinked, as if she suddenly realized that both John and Mike were also in the room with the two of them. Twisting her hands together in front of her in a blatantly nervous act before looking at the floor for a few seconds.

“Um...okay…” With that muttered, she quickly made her exit, without much else said.

“So, how do you feel about the violin?” With coffee still in hand the taller gentleman turned back to John, seeming to look down at him with the curious gaze he had held before their interruption, and waited for a answer. John had been watching Molly leave, but now he found himself the center of attention.

“You already told him about me?” John instantly turned to Mike before answering, to find his friend giving a shrug and shake of his head at the same time, the grin returning.

“I didn't say anything at all.” John was starting to feel a bit off about that grin…

“Um...what now?” John turned back to whom he had been addressed by, only to find that the man had moved back over to the table he had been working on before, and was currently tapping away at a laptop that now adorned the table itself.

“The violin.” The man stated again, seeming to get a slightly annoyed tone at having to repeat himself, without looking up at John as he stared at the laptop’s open screen. “I like to play when I am thinking. Sometimes, I don’t speak for days on end.” Suddenly, as if he had a thought that erupted into his head, he leaned up and peered back to John, with a more interested look.

“Would that bother you?” A small pause, and sarcastic smirk to add to it. “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, don't you think?”

John suddenly felt the urge to defend himself to that smirk, and squared his shoulders back, adjusting his cane slightly.

“Who said anything about flatmates?”

“I did, obviously.” The man answered, back to that underwhelmed tone of his he had been using before, but it didn't stop him. “I was telling Mike this morning how I believed it was troublesome to find a flatmate for myself. Now, he is here after lunch hours accompanied by an old friend that is very clearly back from military service. It was not that difficult.”

“And how exactly, did you know about Afghanistan?” John quickly found himself leaning towards aggravated, to well...impressed.

John was ignored at first by the other man, whom had decided it was a good time to stand back up and pull a scarf where it had been hanging on the wall and wrap it about his neck. After, he reached into his coat to pull out a mobile and flipped it open to look. John had a few seconds to realize that the man’s own cell phone had actually _been in his coat pocket the entire time_. The coat he had been _wearing._

“I happen to know of a nice little place in London…” With a smirk, he looked up from his phone and in John’s direction. “I believe we should be able to afford it together.”

John opened his mouth to reply, but found that nothing came out. Instead he gave a small cough.

“Lets meet there tomorrow at seven...Oh!” The man quickly re-pocketed his cellphone and made his way around John to the door. “Gotta run, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

John turned to Mike and silently mouthed the words ‘ _riding crop?_ ’ before turning back to the leaving man with a narrowed expression.

“That’s it?”

The man paused with his hand on the door’s handle, twisting his head about to look at John as if he had asked the most simple minded question in the universe. Slowly, he withdrew his hand and stepped closer, a little too close even for John’s usual comfort. Which was running on empty.

“Is that what?” He asked, seeming to do his best now to try to simplify his tone.

Raising a hand, John used the still gloved appendage to wave between the two of them. Letting out a huff of breath.

“We just met? Going to look at a flat together?” Did he have to spell out the obvious to this man?

His supposed new flatmate grinned at that, leaning down just barely to look at John from a closer perspective, and responded in a breathy tone.

“...Problem?”

John was about to start onto a rather lengthy rant about all of the almost certain problems of this situation in general were, but that bloody grin. Instead, he gave out a breathy laugh, one that even surprised himself. He turned to look at Mike, to see if he had any input to add to this ridiculous conversation.

Instead, he found Mike simply looking to the other man with the same grin as before without much change, and not giving John any visible clues as to what else might be going on here.

“Well, you don't know anything about me. I don't know anything about you, I don't know where we are meeting and I don't even know your name.” Prompted John finally after getting absolutely no help from Mike.

The man clicked his fingers after leaning back up, holding onto that his own grin.

“I know you're an army doctor that has been recently invalidated home from Afghanistan. You have a brother who is worried about you but you will not go to him for help because you disapprove...of a drinking problem, more than likely. I would not be surprised if his wife recently left him. I also know that your therapist thinks the limp in your right leg is psychosomatic. Incorrect I am afraid, I'd fire her."

John ended up blinking, again, to his frustration. Looking down to his leg he shuffled it closer to his body with a shift of his cane, attempting to come up with a proper reply to the man’s description. His quite amazingly accurate, description.

“That is enough for me to go on, yes?” That grin, despite how smug it looked on the taller man’s features, looked rather authentic now at least. With that, he twirled himself around with a flutter of that coat of his and made his way to the door again, slipping out of the room quickly.

John only had a moment to look over at his friend Mike, before suddenly that set of dark curls was darting itself out from behind the door frame again as the man peeked back into the room. Instead though, atop his head and holding the very same hue was a pair of dark furry pointed ears, perked forwards to give the man’s smirk an added _extra_ flair.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street.”

With a knowing wink, he was back out the door, and out of sight.

John could only stare at where the man named Sherlock had only been a few seconds before, very slowly he turned around to look at Mike, who was watching him with a very satisfied look. John carefully pointed to the door.

“Is he...?”

“Yep.” Mike replied.

“And is he always like that?”

“Most certainly.” Mike kept on grinning.


	3. A realization.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was found, that Familiars could be born from humans without the taboo act of a copulation between Warlock/Witch and their selected Familiar. Even though numerous testing still has limited results as to why this is, humanity has simply accepted the fact. Most Familiars are born with any sort of particular physical aspect to suggest their genealogy. Be it the more common slitted eyes or partially clawed fingernails, these physical aspects could even resort up to ears, wings, scales, tails, and many other aspects have been documented. These physical aspects are normally registered in the womb of the pregnant female before birth, and c-sections are always recommended to eliminate further difficulties. Magic-users on the other hand, are normally only found later in childhood. ‘Late-Bloomers’ that only show signs of magic-use much later in life are seen unusual, but not unheard of.

John has a lot to think about.

Ever since he returned home, he hadn't had this much to think about. With days spent in the hospital, the therapy sessions, and getting the bedsit to reside in, there wasn't really a lot more to add to current events that needed thinking about. Or, wanted to think about if the case may be.

His earlier bad mood had been erased with the development of the day, meeting Mike and the fellow named Sherlock who was supposedly meeting him later to look at a flat. A flat that they were suddenly going to be sharing together. That alone was a lot to think about, on top of the fact that apparently Mike had completely left out in their earlier conversation that the particular person also looking for a flat-share didn't happen to be all-that human.

Now, John Watson could easily tell himself he wasn't racist by any means. He could do this honestly, and with a straight face. This was far easier than the fact that he wasn't sure he felt entirely comfortable though, and was even having a hard time convincing himself that the only negative feelings he was getting from the situation was that one lone factor. At least he could reason with himself in that the only reason he may be feeling slightly uncomfortable was the fact that he had been shot by a Familiar and maybe in that same brain process was the one his therapist kept attempting to tell him about with his leg not actually being injured. Maybe it was just nothing to worry about?

But, John remembered that Sherlock had mentioned that she had been wrong in her conclusion and he should fire her. Did that mean something was actually wrong with his leg? Oddly enough, he found he was comforted by this thought. He rather actually be in pain rather than some lady he had only known in the last few months tell him that he was loony in the head.

He was left on these thoughts when he realized he was attempting to pull the keys to his bedsit from his pocket. Apparently he had been running on autopilot to return here, and he suspected he had at least paid the cabbie to bring him, otherwise he’d be coming back online to some rather intense yelling.

His cane had been turned into his left hand while he fumbled for the keys, finally retrieving them and opening his bedsit to hop to his bed with a flop down onto the mattress. Letting his head rest on his pillow he sat the cane to the side and used the same arm to lift and cover his eyes for a tiny moment of peace in the darkness it would provide.

Today sure hadn't ended up anything like he thought it was going to. But that was a good thing, right?

With a stretch and a few pops of his back he felt the contents of his other pocket press against his leg, and he instinctively reached down to rid himself of them so he could get more comfortable. But on taking out his cellphone he paused in the movement to put it on the table next to him.

Looking at the thick plastic, he knew why the doctors had helped him pick the case out for it, old phone or not. That thought was kind of aggravating, and he knew the industrial line of phone case was mostly meant in hopes that if he did accidentally handle it without his gloves on then he had a better chance of not shorting it completely out. Just another daily handicap he had to deal with of his new lifestyle.

But, Sherlock had not seemed to care. Flipping it open he took a minute to make his way into the messages that had been sent to see what the tall gentleman had been doing.

**If brother has green ladder  
** **arrest brother.**  
 **SH**

Well, whatever that meant.

Brushing a finger over the digital letters in thought, John ended up glancing over at his desk to notice that he hadn't put his laptop away from earlier. This brought on the idea that maybe it would be a better idea if he attempted to find out a little more on who this Sherlock Holmes person was before he actually went out to meet with him again. Better safe than sorry was always a good rule.

Sitting the phone finally to the side on the bedside table he pushed himself back up and stood to move over to his desk, not bothering with the cane this time. Cracking his knuckles he took a minute to let the laptop load up Quest’s website and typed in the name, Sherlock Holmes, into it’s search box.

Leaning further closer to the screen he began to click.

* * *

Hours later found John standing on the side of a semi-busy street. Looking up from the large black door marked 221B in faded gold, he was tilting his head while trying to look through the windows from his ground position. Just as he got done knocking he heard a car pull up behind him, and on turning his head he caught full view of Sherlock sliding from the back seat and reaching through the window to pay the cab fare. Turning as the car made to pull away, he gave John a perky smile on noticing him actually having shown up.

John ended up blinking slightly, but with a small cough he nodded his head towards Sherlock and stretched out a gloved hand in his direction, doing his damnedest to avoid looking at the top of his head to wonder where the ears were currently hiding. 

“Mr. Holmes.” He said respectfully.

“Call me Sherlock.” Was responded while taking John’s hand and giving it a shake, afterwards he moved closer to the building and waved a hand in its direction in indication to John.

“Well, it is a nice spot. Expensive though.” John clumsily responded to the questioning gaze he got.

“Nothing to worry about, the landlady is giving me a nice deal. Her husband was sentenced to death in Florida a few years ago, and now she owes me a favor for helping her out.”

“Oh, he wasn't executed then?”

“Hardly, I made sure it happened.” Sherlock was giving him what could be almost described as a sweet smile now. If that wasn't creepy, John wasn't sure what was.

“Oh, hello!” They were suddenly interrupted when the door had decided to open.

Inside was an older looking lady with a mop of silvery aged brown hair that was giving the both of them a wide grin upon realizing whom was at the door. She nodded to John before looking to Sherlock as she back-stepped to allow them room inside.

“Sherlock, bring him in, bring him in...so very nice to meet you.” She continued to smile while Sherlock stepped inside before John so that he could wrap one long arm around her hip in a loose embrace, which she lovingly patted him on the back with a fond look.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is Doctor John Watson. John, Mrs. Hudson.” He nodded in John’s direction as he was carefully stepping other the threshold.

“Nice to meet you too.” John answered after leaning slightly to the side to take some of the pressure off his leg, he gave the older woman a smile, and this seemed to brighten her even further.

“Shall we?” Sherlock suddenly mentioned though before the conversation could further into more greetings between the two of them, and unlooped himself from Mrs Hudson to make his way up the stairs.

“Oh, yes.” Mrs Hudson quickly nods and sidestepped around John so that she could close the door behind him, though she was quick enough to brush a hand against his shoulder and John found himself already liking the woman as he tilted his head to watch her. Though with Sherlock’s footsteps going up the stairs he was quick to catch on that he should be following, that and Sherlock was already at the top looking down at him by the time he placed a hand on the stairs’ rail.

Glancing down he did his best to hide the small frown as he moved to lift his cane up while putting his weight more-so on the rail itself as he made his way up the stairs at a far slower pace than Sherlock. 

His mood was just about to shift to that darker side he had been wallowing in by the time he did make it up the stairs, but Sherlock seemed patient enough to wait till John was at his side. After, he turned to unlock the door and swept himself inside with a flutter of that coat of his. John watched the fluid movement with interest that erased the fleeting thought of hobbling up the stairs, and made his way inside after him.

Pausing, he looked around the room. It already seemed stock full of both opened and unopened boxes, with different possessions scrambled about as if their owner was merely attempting to fill the room as quickly as possible with little regard to where different objects should be placed. Sherlock was currently standing somewhere in the middle between two chairs, hovering over a small table with his hands on his hips, and suddenly those two ears that John had seen before were perched high atop his head while he gave the sight of the cluttered room a rather pleased look.

“Well,” John mentioned after a moment. “This could be nice.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock had pointed in John’s direction after with the same happy look, both ears twisting forwards at the sound of his voice. “That is why I already moved in.”

John faltered slightly as he was presented with Sherlock’s sudden attention, along with the ears having re-formed atop his head. Clearing his throat quickly he went back to glancing about, trying to cover up his unnerved state.

“Well, after the rubbish is cleared…” Oops.

Only then did John realize exactly what Sherlock had said, he had been far too distracted with the Familiar’s sudden attention to have put full merit in Sherlock’s earlier statement of already having moved in. He was on the receiving end of a right-ear twitch while Sherlock was now watching him carefully.

“Um, so this…” John tried again, but ended up just motioning around the room.

“Obviously I can straighten things up, a bit…” Sherlock mentioned before twisting away from John to lean down over the table to pick up some stray folders, dusting underneath them as if that was the best possible solution. Only then did John actually notice that Sherlock had re-folded his ears back against his head, the two extra appendages mimicking his hair hue nearly perfectly as they shifted into the curls. So that's where they had been.

While John watched Sherlock re-put the folders exactly where they had originally been after the half hearted dusting, he picked up some envelopes that had been sitting near by and walked over to the fireplace, grabbing a small knife that had been placed there to stab the offending envelopes down. At this, John noticed something else, and he lifted to point the end of his cane at it towards the mantle.

“That. Is a skull.”

Turning, both Sherlock’s ears had lifted again at John’s statement. Looking between him and the mantle to the already mentioned skull, and giving the bone decoration a small confirming nod.

“Just a friend.”

As John was mouthing the words ‘ _Just a friend?_ ’ to himself, Mrs Hudson had made perfect timing to slide into the room almost unnoticed, though Sherlock was quick to catch on and leaned up to his full height and pulled his attention towards her. John turned to look, noticing her.

“So Doctor Watson, there is another bedroom upstairs. _If_ you will be needing it.” The older woman giving him a insanely obvious wink while she grasped both hands together in front of her, pleased.

John opened his mouth to reply, but only ended up stuttering as he realized the full intentions that Mrs. Hudson was trying to portray to him, he shook his head quickly.

“Of _course_ we’ll need two!” He attempted to reply in a similar emphasized manner that she had used.

Mrs Hudson simply rolled her eyes as she turned and made her way into the kitchen, with a slight shake of her hand in John’s direction as if waving his defense off.

“Oh no need to worry about that dear, all sorts around here.” She mentioned, though paused before actually moving into the kitchen to look at him, lowering her voice to a scandalous whisper. “Mrs. Turner next-door has _married_ ones.” Adding in a small giggle afterwards.

With that said, and before John could defend his sexuality further she had already stepped into the kitchen with a slightly muffled ‘Oh Sherlock! The mess in here...’, and the sound of scattering glassware could be heard.

With a sigh and a shake of his head John simply moved deeper into the room and over to one of the unoccupied chairs, with a fluff of the pillow adorning it he flopped down, and instinctively went to rub over his knee while looking back up to Sherlock whom had apparently went back to his ‘dusting’ and was currently brushing a hand over the curtains of the main window. With all the good that would actually do.

“So, uh...I looked your name up on the internet last night.”

“Find anything interesting?” Sherlock mentioned without turning to look at him, though the ears had definitely twisted about in his direction. That was something that John was seriously going to have to get used to. 

“The Science of Deduction. Quite a read.” John quickly answered.

“Oh?” Now he had his attention. Sherlock was looking directly over to him with the blue gaze locked onto John.

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.” John smirked at him, challenging him further. He had read through the website and even though he had been impressed with the amount of detail, he found he had wanted to see this sort of deduction for himself.

“I can also tell you about your military career with your one leg, face, and hands. Also, your brother’s drinking habits with your phone.” Challenge accepted.

John startled slightly with the mention to his hands, looking quickly down to the gloved appendages as realizing that Sherlock had actually noticed them. Bloody hell, of course he had.

Before the conversation could turn to nowhere that John actually wanted it to go, Mrs Hudson was fluttering back into the living room while holding a newspaper and giving it a rather scrutinizing look.

“Suicides, Sherlock. Right up your street, I thought. Three of them.” She gave a small shake of the paper in his direction.

“Make that four, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock was currently looking down at the street through the window, having stopped his trivial dusting to study the street.

John was about to open his mouth but found himself being interrupted again by the front door opening and closing to allow in a gentleman in silver tipped hair, coat looking ruffled and giving Sherlock a stern look while ignoring the others within the room with a pair of overly shiny yellow eyes. Very _not-human eyes_ , John noticed. He wondered for a second why he kept catching onto these things quickly, but then he knew exactly why he was, and he frowned slightly at that thought.

“Where?” Sherlock simply asked the new man.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.” Replied slightly rougher than Sherlock’s baritone.

“What is new about it? You wouldn't have come otherwise.”

“You know how they never leave notes?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock waved a hand in the man’s direction distractedly.

“This one did.”

That, had Sherlock’s full attention and he nodded, ears bobbing on his head slightly. He hadn't bothered to ‘put them away’ in front of this other man, John noticed.

“Forensics?”

“Anderson.” The man put his hands on his hips, looking even more stern.

“You know that Anderson will not work with me.” Sherlock gave a grimace as if saying the very name left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Well, Anderson is not your assistant.”

John was currently left sitting, looking back and forth between the two men as their conversation continued, Mrs. Hudson was still quietly in the background blinking as she watched.

“And that is my **problem** , I need one!” Sherlock had raised his tone at this point and flung both arms up over dramatically.

“Sherlock, are you going to come or not?” The man simply ignored his outburst.

“Not in a police car. I’ll be along shortly.” Sherlock muttered darkly at him, ears flat and erased from existence once more.

The man then turned and gave Mrs. Hudson a small nod of acknowledgement since he had ignored her up to this point, and on turning to look down at John he paused for a moment. Raising a brow above one of those yellow slit orbs for just the mere second before giving him a similar nod and turning to head back out the door with little else said about Sherlock’s current new company.

As soon as the other man had left, Sherlock’s attitude completely changed in the blink of an eye. A wild grin gripped his face and he twirled his body towards the kitchen, grabbing Mrs. Hudson for a quick moment and twirling the older lady about in sudden enthusiasm. Leaving John sitting there like a lump on a log with absolutely no idea what was going on.

“Four serial suicides, and now a note! Its Christmas, Mrs. Hudson!” He grins down to her, before looking back into the kitchen from whence she had came. “I might be late, will need food.”

Mrs. Hudson had let out a small ‘Oh!’ and wince as she had been twirled, but at the last statement she carefully reached around her to un-pluck Sherlock’s arm from her, so she could then cross both her arms over her chest and lift her head defiantly up in his direction.

“Landlady, dear. Not your housekeeper.” She lifted a hand to point and tap her finger in the air at him.

But Sherlock was deaf to the act and was already pulling his coat tighter around himself and making his way to the door, barely even looking back at his ‘landlady’ or his new flatmate.

“John,” Well at least he was being acknowledged again at least “Do not wait up, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home!” Grabbing a small pouch from the kitchen table as he went, he was already halfway down the stairs with the door banging shut behind him.

Soon as he was gone, Mrs. Hudson was looking back to John’s slightly wide eyed look with a comforting fond one of her’s. Giving a slight tilt to her head and letting out a content sigh.

“Always dashing about, my husband was very much the same.”

John couldn't help frowning at her. He was under no circumstances whatsoever Sherlock’s anything of the sort, let alone husband!

But Mrs. Hudson was in league with Sherlock’s deafness as she completely ignored the soured look and reached over to softly pat John’s shoulder with the undeterred smile while placing her newspaper on the table in front of him.

“How about a cuppa? You just rest your leg, dear.” With that she attempted to turn back to the kitchen.

“ **DAMN my leg!** ” John snarled after her, without even realizing it. Causing the helpless Mrs. Hudson to twist back around towards him in shock with a hand raised to her chest and mouth open.

“Sorry! I'm...I'm sorry. So sorry.” John quickly attempted to recover himself. He hadn't actually meant to yell at her, and he knew it was mostly due to the stress he felt from being out of the loop, but he truly didn't mean it. He let his head droop slightly while giving her what his sister often described as the puppy-dog eyes. They usually worked in moments like these. “Its just this bloody leg…”

Mrs Hudson interrupted him with a firm shake of her head, afterwards looking at him with almost motherly concern.

“Please dear, its quite alright. I have a hip, you see.” She mentioned while placing her hand on the mentioned hip with a small wince. After, she turned and made her way back into the kitchen.

“A cup of tea would be lovely.” John was trying his best to salvage the situation as best as possible as he called after her, “Maybe some biscuits if you have any?”

“Just this once, I am not your housekeeper either!” Came the upraised tone from the kitchen, making John smile in spite of himself.

Turning back around he noticed the newspaper she had been holding, reaching to the table he grabbed it to find the article she had been mentioning to Sherlock. Tilting his head as he flipped through till finally stopping on a picture that obviously held the appearance of the man who had been in the flat prior with news for Sherlock. Looking at it closely he then took the time to browse down through the article itself, catching the name of D.I. Lestrade.

Just as he was about to read further so that maybe he would have a chance to catch up with whatever was going on, the door suddenly opened, and Sherlock was peeking his head inside in a single darted movement. Causing John to startle and nearly drop the paper he had been holding.

“You’re a Doctor. An army doctor.” He stated while piercing John what that studied gaze.

“Um...yes?” John quietly answers as if not to disturb Mrs Hudson and carefully put down the paper back on the table and shoved himself up to walk over to the door, cane in tow.

“Any good?” A head tilt forced those curls to the side again in much the same manner that John had seen before when he had first met Sherlock at Bart’s. Though now the ears were perked forwards with a slight quiver in a much more interested manner then they had been before.

“Very good.” John huffed at the thought of him being anything but.

“Injuries, violent deaths, that whole lot.” Sherlock stated, without glancing away.

John sighed, lowering his tone even further.

“Yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet?” One brow quirked above the other, and John could swear that Sherlock was just barely ghosting a grin.

“Of course.” John answered with a firm nod.

Sherlock had honestly been attempting to hold in the grin, even if he knew John could sense it. So instead he fully smirked at the Doctor in front of him and motioned downstairs with a hand. A slight curve to his ears only added to the mischievous look.

“Want to see some more?”

John would like to say he did the smart thing and asked what in bloody hell Sherlock was going on about. Yes, that would have been the smart thing to do in this sort of situation. Specially after spending the last hour in near complete ignorance of exactly what he was getting into.

“Oh god, yes.”

Sometimes John wasn't a smart man.

* * *

That was exactly how John now found himself running down the corridor of the empty college, cane hobbled in one hand and pistol in the other. Both hands still gloved to keep him from shocking himself or exploding the weapon he had loaded and picked up before going after Sherlock. He had picked the weapon up from his bedsit on the way here. 

What in the _bloody hell_ had he got himself into?! First, he had been brought to a crime scene, an actual crime scene, dead body and all. Then, Sherlock had apparently got the idea that the suicides were anything but actual suicides and suddenly they were in the middle of a murder investigation. John was just a doctor! Regardless of the fact that Sherlock had asked his opinion of the dead woman, and yes John had actually been able to give information that was correct, Sherlock had still been there to give the conclusion that the woman had not killed herself. Well, not really. John had just been there to prove a point.

And where was Sherlock now? That... _that_... _ **idiot**_ , had actually ran off by himself with what John could only expect to be the murderer. John had followed the man around dutifully all day, only to suddenly be left again without much notice other than having watched Sherlock leave in a cab. It was only by luck John felt, that he had went back to 221B right as Sherlock’s laptop had started to beep with a map tracking the location of the poor dead girl’s phone. John remembered looking at the screen, with a very wrong feeling settling into his chest, and had grabbed both it and his cane to try and find Sherlock.

Roland-Kerr College, that is where the map had led him. Going from classroom to classroom was all he was left with now as he continued to try and find the idiot that had gone missing. Calling Sherlock’s name every time he opened a door only to find the room behind it empty, John was starting to feel desperate. He had called that Lestrade fellow on the way here, via a phone call to the police, but would they make it in time?

* * *

“I see, so you are a Familiar too. _Meles meles_ , a smart one at that.”

The older gentleman that had brought Sherlock to this location was now sitting comfortably at the table adorning the room. Leaning back slightly and looking up in his direction from under his cap with only a bit of near-white hair poking out under its edges.

Behind the thin framed glasses was the only aspect that named this other Familiar as non-human, and with a hand brought up to re-perch the eye-wear correctly on his nose, it only pointed out the darkened hue of black skin covering both his eyes and reaching upwards to his brow. It could have been a tattoo of course, even if an odd one, but the hue blended near perfectly even into the aging skin of the old man as it faded to a more natural tone when the mask broke away.

With a shrug of the man’s shoulders, with both palms upraised into the air defeatedly, he gave a small sigh as if he was only agreeing reluctantly to the deduction.

“Don't look it, do I Mr. _Felis catus_?”

After, he simply rounded a palm out towards the table in front of him where two bottles sat. A small pill sat inside each tiny glass prison.

“We’re here to play a little game, kitten.”

* * *

 _Had John actually picked the wrong building?!_ The map on Sherlock’s laptop had said the phone was here, and that meant that Sherlock had to be here somewhere. He hadn't had much of a choice though, and had been forced to finally make a decision. Time was not a factor that he had in his favor.

* * *

“You’re not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There’s others out there just like you, except you’re just a typical Familiar...and they’re so much more than that. No hiding from me, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock’s ears kept flat to his head, even if they twitched of their own accord at the man’s words to cause his hair to ruffle slightly. Slowly he stepped forwards, slipping off his coat for what felt like the first time today and uncoiled his black tail from around his waist with a flick. Placing the coat on the back of the chair, he sat down in front of both the bottles and the other Familiar.

“What do you mean, more than a Familiar? An organization? What?”

“There’s a name no-one says, and I’m not gonna say it either. Now…”

The older gentleman raised a brow with an almost primal smirk, the cabby Familiar whom Sherlock had found to be named Jeff Hope slowly slid the two bottles in his direction.

“Time to choose.”

* * *

John _had_ picked the wrong building. John had picked the _wrong bloody building!_ His mind was screaming at him, as he dove through another doorway in frantic pace. He had lost his cane somewhere along the way, he faintly remembered something clanging down a hallway, but apparently hadn't stopped to retrieve it.

It was another empty classroom, and John had no idea where else he could go, and it was only again by luck did he glance over at a window to the far building along the other side, the building he hadn't chosen to go into first.

Sure enough, there was Sherlock. Now standing over a smaller man that John could barely make out. Sherlock’s frame on the other hand was more than obvious, and squinting John could make out the detective raising a hand upwards to hold something into the light of the room, which flickered off it briefly.

**No!**

Breathing heavily he rushed at the barred window, lifting both fists to bang against it as he called out Sherlock’s name to no avail. He was just too far away to be heard. John banged against the glass in frustration, again, with the material giving absolutely no leeway to his physical onslaught. Reaching down to his waist he pulled his Sig Sauer into his gloved left hand, the appendage both trembled in the leather grasp as he pointed it towards the other building.

There was just no way he was making that shot. Not only did his weapon shake in his hand in that bloody tremor, but it just felt wrong with the leather keeping him from getting a comfortable grip. He hadn't shot the weapon at all since leaving Afghanistan, and had been afraid even to do so from what his doctors had shown and warned him. It had just been too much of a risk.

Glancing down the barrel he looked through the glass, Sherlock was standing still as the man seemed to be speaking to him, but then he went to unclasp whatever it was he was holding.

_I’m too late, again._

The glass, _the bloody glass_ , John hadn't even remembered to look at it properly. The window had been barred yes, easy enough to shoot between the laced metal, but on further inspection it was exactly as he suddenly feared. It was thick, too thick for a common material for just any normal window. But this was a college, and they had done everything they could to protect their students. Reaching up with his right hand, silhouetting on Sherlock’s frame from so far away, he knocked. A dull, too dull, thunk echoed back, bulletproof.

John slumped, Sherlock was already lifting whatever it was to his mouth. It was over.

Closing his eyes John grit his teeth together in a personal snarl of anguish at the inability to do anything. It was going to be like last time. A man dies, and his life is changed forever, all over again.

John blinked his eyes open in that thought. His life changed forever? He’d only known this one Familiar for less than a day, and in the time he had been back he hadn't felt...so himself. Here was a purpose, a new one, but a purpose all the same. Clarity, might have been a good word to describe it.

“ _I won’t let you._ ” He muttered softly to himself.

Snatching his right hand back from the window he lifted it to his mouth, and used his teeth to rip off the leather glove. Once the glove was ripped off, John switched the gun to his right hand. He barely even registered the arches of white electricity that instantly latched onto the metal like a long-lost lover, caressing. Was there any pain? John was far from feeling it.

John didn't have to think about aiming, he was already locked onto his target long before the weapon switched hands, he was already looking down the barrel, and he already knew he wasn't going to miss.

“ **You will not take this away from me!** ”

He might have screamed it, but John’s world had became a torrent of roaring white.

* * *

A gunshot was nothing compared to the sound that suddenly drove into Sherlock’s ears like nails driven through his own skull with the speed that seemed to rival light itself.

Dropping the bottle, he had dove his fists into his hair and did his best to cover his ears at the sound. White light bathed the room in almost a baptism fit of glory and Sherlock only had a chance to see Jeff’s body drop and begin to twitch in the violence of the sudden onslaught.

It all took place in a matter of seconds before the world returned to normal, except for the faint sizzled sound and the smell of burnt everything enveloping the room. Darting forwards to skid on his knees, Sherlock knew he had maybe a chance the man hadn't instantly died from whatever had hit him, snatching onto the man’s shirt and yanking him up with a shake.

“A name! **Give me a name!** Damn you!”

A coughed giggle through clenched teeth was all he got at first. The other Familiar was quickly dying, the still smoking hole in his chest leaving burned scorch marks into the surrounding flesh where the cloth covering it had burned back on impact. Jeff Hope’s eyes had rolled back into his head, his cap having been lost in the attack to let the black streaks from his eyes slide all the way back through his white hair in the obvious marks of his other form. A hiss through his teeth was the last breath he got to take before he made his exit off his own mortal coil’s stage.

“ _Moriarty._ ”


	4. Gunshots and Giggles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Familiars are now seen as productive members of society after years of struggle to achieve the right. Even though there is still prejudice amongst humans and magic-users alike, laws have been in effect for years giving them full membership to society with rights to marriage, voting, schooling, etc. By law, all are equal, though many hold keen to the ‘old ways’ of thinking that Familiars are the lesser species. Special bonding between Familiars with Warlocks and Witches are even more rare than before. With Familiar rights in place, they are now able to hold their own without their owner’s permission and care, and most feel no need to ‘find’ their partner. These special bonds still take place from time to time as a Familiar and Magic-user will still tend to meet as if by fate, and these bonds are seen as good omens for both Familiar and Magic-user and are often looked upon with jealousy.

“What is this?”

Sherlock was currently sitting on the back of the ambulance, where he had been ‘put’ by the paramedics shortly after he’d been ‘escorted’ out of the college. All of this was just absolutely ridiculous.

“Its a shock blanket, Sherlock.”

“I know what it is! Do I look like I am in shock to you, Graham?”

“Greg.”

Sherlock was currently busy picking at the orange cloth covering his shoulders with lithe digits as if the material was offensive, he was very knowledgeable about how orange was just _not_ his color, and had clearly decided that the Detective Inspector was no longer worth his time. Greg fought off a sigh at the familiar inattentiveness before trying again.

“Sherlock.”

“What? Oh, so you did not see the shooter?”

“Gone before we got here.” Lestrade lifted his right shoulder in a shrug. “That cabbie could have had enemies I suppose in his line of work but, sadly nothing else to go on.”

Sherlock was faintly aware that Lestrade was still talking to him after, something about how the shot itself had to have been magical in nature, as if that wasn't so obvious, but instead his attention had been caught by a familiar blonde man standing near the sidelines behind the police tape. Hands in his pockets, and his hair completely in disarray, John was currently watching the scene between the two of them. On noticing Sherlock’s attention he pulled a gloved hand out of his pocket and waggled his fingers in his direction.

“ _Oh, I don't know about that…_ ” Sherlock smirked, quietly muttering to himself.

“Sherlock? Do you know something we don't?”

Blinking, Sherlock jerked his head away from John’s gaze and found Lestrade standing with hands on his hips and giving him a rather pointedly narrowed gaze. Quickly he looked to the side and away from the questioning look before suddenly jumping to his feet and throwing off the abysmal blanket in Lestrade’s direction for him to catch and nearly stumble backwards from the abrupt change in position.

“You know what? Just ignore me.”

“Sherlock!”

“ **What?!** Can’t you see I am in shock, Gavin?!”

“ **IT’S GREG.** ”

* * *

Shortly afterwards, John found himself alongside Sherlock as the two of them were walking away from the crime scene and in the general direction of 221B. Hands were back in his pockets and John found himself looking everywhere but the Consulting Detective's direction. The traffic was really looking horrid with all of the police jamming up the streets at this time of night…

“Nice shot.”

“Hm?” John darted his head back around to Sherlock’s direction to find the younger man had actually stopped and turned to look directly at him. He also paused, blinking in what he hoped was an innocent manner. “Yeah? Yeah. Had to have been. Bullet proof, right?”

“Right.” Sherlock mimicked, not taking his eyes off John.

John didn't reply, simply watching Sherlock and waiting to see if the Detective could see through his ruse. Blast it, surely Sherlock could see a lie from a mile away. Eventually the blue gaze lowered to right pocket, curiously tilting his head as if he could study the hidden appendage that John still had out of sight.

“It is good that your glove was hiding the powder burns while we were still on the scene. Though, I wonder if there even was powder burns with a shot like that one, possibly. Regardless, I would rather avoid a future court case.”

John attempted to swallow down the urge to cough, and ended up clearing his throat instead while drawing his eyes back to the traffic to their right. What in the hell was he supposed to say to something like that?

“Are you alright?”

Sherlock was again attempting to keep his attention, and damn it if it wasn't hard to give it. John pulled a hand from his pocket when he turned back to look at him, pointing at himself.

“Me?”

Sherlock simply raised a brow at the very stupid question.

“Of course I am alright, why wouldn't I be?”

“You did just kill a man.”

“Well…” Trailing off, John shuffled his shoes against the sidewalk, looking down at them for a single moment before raising his head to look back up at his current companion with a bit more confidence, squaring his shoulders. “He wasn't a very nice man.”

That, strangely enough, forced a grin from Sherlock.

“And he was a bloody awful cabbie.” John added in.

Sherlock laughed at that, another win for John.

“Should have seen the route he took us to get here!”

The laughter was rather contagious, and John ended up giggling right alongside Sherlock as they started moving again, Sherlock having raised his hand and attempting to hail a cab.

“ _Shhh!_ We shouldn't be giggling!” John stated just as their cab came up to the side of the street to pick them up.

Sherlock opened the door for John, jerking a thumb inside the cab to indicate he should get in.

“Your the one who shot him, not me.”

“ _Keep your voice down!_ ” John hastily whispered as he got inside and scooted to the far end of the cab so that Sherlock could join him. Pulling his coat tighter around himself, Sherlock slid in beside him, simply giving John an almost playful roll of his eyes before looking forwards.

“Two two one B Baker Street.” He casually mentioned before leaning back against the seat.

“Um, actually.” John mentioned, catching a curious glance from Sherlock as he did. “I really should go by my flat at least. I could really use a change of clothes.”

Sherlock simply raised a shoulder and flung out his fingers towards their cab driver in reply.

John leaned forwards and tapped the cab driver’s shoulder to grab his attention, which merely caused the man to look back at John through his rear-view window. Quietly, he gave the man the address and then leaned back into his seat again, giving Sherlock a look to find the man having turned his head towards the window and seemed deep in thought.

Giving a mental shrug, John also turned towards his own window and was taking the quiet moment to go over the day’s events while the lights of the city flashed over his vision when the cab took to the streets. It was easy enough to get lost in the flashbacks of following Sherlock around during the day. The murder, meeting Lestrade, and so forth. It was only when his thoughts deepened into the dark halls of the college, only to follow up with the white glare of his gunshot did John frown and lower his vision to the street itself running past. John could understand why he had done it, well, mostly. How, was another matter entirely. John was used to running on instinct, but this entire situation was different in a way that he wasn't quite sure he was comfortable with.

Reaching up with a still gloved hand he attempted to smooth back his hair, only to find it sticking to the leather of his glove. He ended up making a face as he attempted to yank his hand back and found most of his hair attempting to follow suite in static cling. Yeah, nothing comfortable about this at all. 

The cab rolled to a stop, and looking up John saw the building that housed his flat outside the window.

“I’ll only be a minute.” He mentioned to both the cab driver and Sherlock, both of which seemed to ignore him, not that John was too surprised by this.

Patting himself down while he removed himself from the cab, John found his keys while he made his way up to the flat. By the time he reached the door he already had the correct key in hand and was ready to make this stop and be as quick as possible. He ended up pausing though, right as he was about to shove the key into the lock.

The door was cracked open, just barely.

Narrowing his eyes he tilted his frame to the side in an attempt to peer through the crack so that he could get a glimpse inside. After doing so he ended up cursing under his breath and just pushing the door open to head inside. He had such a long day and John was ready to get all of this fuckery over with, despite whomever he would have to grapple with that got in his way.

John already had a hand hovering at his side in case he needed to shoot whomever he found inside, but once entered the presence of the current occupant was unnerving enough to cause him to again pause in the motion of defense.

The door banged against the wall and John was left looking at the most well dressed thief he’d ever seen.

The man was tall, not that John wasn't normally used to that, and stood by the window looking down at the street below. What light that could be gained from the street lights at this upwards angle threw glancing shadows across the tailored suit that snugly fit the taller man’s frame. Both hands perched atop a cane that held only a fraction of the man’s weight as he leaned slightly forwards, giving a tilt to his head to look past the wooden frame of the window itself. Once John had entered though, he slowly drew up to his full height, shoulders perched back once he had straightened.

“Ah, Hello Mr. Watson. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Doctor.” John quickly corrected. John didn't like this, the man held a very clear stature of importance even in this awkward introduction. The posh figure raised a brow slightly at the abrupt correction over what looked to be a set of dark gray-hued eyes. Casually he lifted a hand from his cane and grazed it back from a temple through his short hair, a color John wasn't able to completely tell in the shaded light as he had forgotten to hit the switch. John did have a perfectly good reason for forgetting though, because it wasn't only the man’s presence in his flat that he did not like. Another thing to dislike, was the fact that _everything John owned_ seem to be missing from the room itself.

“I would request you take a seat, though as the case may be…” The man then pulled his hand away from his hair and lightly gestured to the very empty room. “Though I am sure this might be of some use to you.” With the free hand placed back atop his hip, the other that held the cane lifted it into the air and let it slide down across his fingers so that he could hold it out towards John to take.

John couldn't help giving a glare at that gesture, the words ‘smug arsehole’ coming to mind when he reached forwards to take the offered cane, only to find that it actually was the very one he had left behind at the college. He hadn't even noticed it being gone. The recollection of this seemed to filter out towards the other man and he was given a slight smirk. John had already decided he didn't like this man.

“Where is all of my stuff?” John asked, rather gruffly.

“Hm. You do not seem very afraid.” The other man simply replied without actually answering.

“ _You_ , don’t seem very frightening.” John answered back in clear retaliation. Only causing the man’s smirk to continue unabated.

“Brave. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” Finally the man moved a step towards him, causing John to grip tighter on his cane he had been given and keeping it between the two of them. This seemed to be completely unnoticed though, as those grey eyes tilted along with the man’s head as he gave John a more curious look. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“I just met him yesterday, that is all.” John briefly wondered why he was answering this man’s questions when the man still refused to tell him where all of his stuff had gone to.

“Yesterday,” The man repeated. “And yet, you are already moving in with him and solving crimes together.” Suddenly leaning closer, the man hovered over John’s small stature and gave him another one of those smirks that John was debating wiping off the man’s face, personally. “Might we expect a _happy announcement_ by the end of the week?”

Okay, that was the end of John’s patience right there.

“Exactly who are you?” A quick retort, and a squaring of his own shoulders.

The taller gentleman slowly leaned back, the smirk finally removed without violence and gave the smallest huff of impatience.

“An interested party.”

“You do not look like a friend of Sherlock's.” John pressured further.

“A friend?” A quiet chuckle. “How many friends do you believe that Sherlock has, Doctor Watson? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And that is?” It was John’s turn to raise a brow.

The man seemed to take a moment to stretch, giving a slight roll to his shoulders before moving back to the strict posture that continued to lord over John’s.

“An enemy. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy. He does so love the dramatics.”

“Well, thank God _you’re_ above all that.” John gave a chuckle of his own, darkly.

Now that finally got him a frown. Good.

“I have already taken the liberty to have your belongings moved to two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street. I should hope you will find everything in proper order once you arrive.”

Oh, so that's where his stuff was.

“Um...Thanks?” John tried, though he did not feel he was at liberty to be thanking this man for anything.

“No need, though…” And here he was being leaned slightly over again. The man’s tone turning to a far more serious turn. “In a return favor, for further information I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

“What information? Why?”

“Oh, nothing indiscreet I assure you.” A hand came up to lightly wave off the question as if it was of little importance. “Just tell me what he’s up to.” A sudden pause, and the man was turning his head towards the window as if he could see down to the street below from this angle, which was rather impossible, attempting to show what John could easily recognize as mock concern. “I worry about him. Constantly.”

“How very nice of you.” John’s face twisted slightly as the words snaked out in sarcasm.

"I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... _difficult_ relationship." John’s sarcasm all but unnoticed as the man turned his head to look towards him again.

“Why am I not surprised. The answer is no.” John kept a hold of his cane with one hand, but was able to cross his arms in defiance of the request.

“Pity. I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Answer is still no.”

“Aren't we the loyal one? And so quickly too.” Another one of those bloody smirks.

“Are we done?” Because John was very done with this entire conversation.

“You could tell me.” The man’s gaze seemed to sweep downwards towards John’s crossed arms. “I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, though I do not see that being a problem with your history.”

“My _what?!_ ” If John hadn't already lost his patience before…

Suddenly, the man looked back up directly into John’s eyes, the gray piercing into his blue as if it could read every single aspect of John’s character with simply that look, and it was everything that John could do not to shiver in the feeling while he was being studied.

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service and you should fire her. She’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now and I am sure your hand is perfectly steady under that covering of leather.”

John did little else but blink.

“You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson ... you miss it.” The smirk from before turned into a normal smile. Well, as normal as this man could muster.

"Welcome back.”

Before John could respond, the man that had still not given him his name turned and walked around John towards the door, lifting a hand to appear to close it, though instead reached behind it with the other to grab an umbrella that had been perched against the wall behind it. With a fluttered shake to the tool, the man then tapped it against the ground and now opened the door fully to step over the threshold. Only pausing to turn back once to look at John who had silently been watching.

“The _Carne al piatto_ , is very good I hear. I am sure you will enjoy it.” And the man was gone, down the hall.

“The what?” John asked to no one, and nothing, in particular.

* * *

John had only taken a few more minutes to browse the rest of the small bedsit, even everything in his tiny kitchen had been taken. Not only that, the place had been cleaned. Well, the landlord was certainly going to enjoy that. John though, was still currently stuck in his current semi-dirty clothes and was adding that fact to his list of things that were not good.

Once had made it back down to the cab that was still waiting for him, he might have slammed the cab door a little too hard as it made Sherlock actually look up from his cell phone once he entered the vehicle. John wasn't sure if anything else would have caught the detective's attention otherwise.

Not that John actually cared right now, he was still going over the previous conversation that had left him feeling even more unnerved than the minutes before he’d actually stepped up into the flat. He didn't even notice as the cab pulled from the curb and out onto the street. What he did notice though, was the sudden sniffing noise at his left ear.

Turning his head sharply around he found himself almost nose to nose with Sherlock, whom had leaned over into his personal space. John stared dumbly back at Sherlock’s lighter blue eyes before finally he leaned back into his own seat on the left side of the cab, giving a hard huff through his nose.

“You stink.”

“ **Oi!** ” Enough was enough! John was about to go on a rampage about how utterly insane this entire night had been, except when he startled at the rude comment he accidentally banged the back of his head against that cab’s right back window.

“Oi yourself!” The cab driver called from the front driver’s seat with a scowl into his rear-view window.

“Sorry! Sorry.” John quickly apologies while he rubbed at the back of his head, smarting.

“Stupid.” Came Sherlock’s expressed opinion.

Both cab driver and John glared from their non-respected positions.

“No! No that. Ugh.” Sherlock crossed his arms and gave a signature huff that was very much not a pout. John wasn't going to be fooled though.

“What are you going on about?”

“ _You_ don't particularly smell, your personal aroma is not offending. It is the _other_ smell on you that I find offensive.” Sherlock replied with a roll of his eyes as if the entire thing were so boringly obvious.

“And what smell would that be?” Ignoring the fact that Sherlock had well, sort of said that he smelled alright.

“Mycroft.” Was the only reply as Sherlock had suddenly found looking out his own window to be more interesting than the current conversation.

“You can smell him on me? Oh, right. Of course _you_ can.”

Instantly, Sherlock glared daggers towards John’s side of the cab.

“I...I didn't mean it like that, Sherlock.” He had already fucked up again. Good going, John. “Really.”

Thankfully, John was spared any further interest from their cab driver that had gone back to driving, but Sherlock was quickly ignoring John’s protest to his accidental racial slur. He hadn't meant it to sound like that at all! Sighing, he looked down to his cane that he had perched near his right knee when he had got into the cab before. He was really going to have to watch what he said from now on.

The brooding in the cab was interrupted by a low growling noise, coming from John’s seat.

Both Sherlock and John looked up at the noise, and John gave a small cough while putting a hand over his own stomach, trying to clear the air as it were with a nervous smirk.

“Sorry, we haven't really had time to get anything to eat today.”

Sherlock didn't reply at first, and sat quiet as he regarded John with a guarded expression. Eventually though, he looked forwards and tapped their cab driver on the shoulder.

“Angelo’s, if you would.” He mentioned when the cab driver drew his attention away from the road slightly to tilt an ear back in Sherlock’s direction.

“I really wish you two would make up your bloody minds…” He’d mutter under his breath before hitting the car’s signal switch to move into the side lane.

* * *

John was about to ask where they were headed, except Sherlock had pulled back up his cellphone and was currently tapping away, as if he were the only other person within the car. Sighing to himself again John leaned back and took the moment to close his eyes and try to clear his head. Hopefully the cab driver already knew where they were headed, because John didn't. Then again, he was just along for the ride after all, right? Right...

Next thing John knew, they were being ushered to a table by a large, very enthusiastic Italian man.

“Sherlock! Always a pleasure, always a pleasure! And whom do we have here, _hmm?_ ” The man leaned close into John’s personal space and John was quick to lean back with a wide eyed gaze. “A friend? Or is this a _special occasion perhaps?_ Sherlock, I am so glad you would choose my establishment!”

“I am not his da-” John was very quickly trying to gain ground by sitting down at their table and scooting back.

“Angelo,” Sherlock quickly interrupted, having already placed himself into his own seat and was relieving himself of his coat only barely, letting the top half drape over the back of his seat. “If you would be so kind.” He gave the man a smile that actually looked genuine. John wasn't so sure though.

“Oh! Apologies.” And menus were being placed in front of them. “Always in a hurry you are, don't let me interrupt, let me just set the mood…” With that said, Angelo was already running off to another unoccupied table and snatching up a candle that had been placed in it’s center. Bouncing back to their table he thrust the candle onto theirs and pulled a set of matches from a front pocket of his apron. A hiss and switch later, and the candle had been lit. Blowing the match out Angelo clapped his hands, looking rather pleased.

“Voila! Haha, the french don’t have anything on this old man’s romantic preparation!”

John caught Sherlock giving the tiniest roll of his eyes at the use of the french word in that statement, making it almost mute in point. John had to bite his lower lip to try to keep from snickering.

“And what will the _lovely couple_ have tonight?” Angelo had pulled a small notebook from another larger pocket along with a pen and was looking fondly at the two of them in wait. John was about to attempt to correct the man again but...

“ _John qui avrà il tuo Carne al piatto. Io prenderò solo acqua, per favore._ ” Sherlock replied, in what John could only guess was Italian. Don't stare, John, he reminded himself. Don’t stare.

“ _Eccellente! Basta eccellente!_ ” Angelo quickly replied, jotting down whatever it was that Sherlock had ordered and snatching up the menus. “Though Sherlock, you should really try and eat more!” He quickly switched back into English.

“Thank you, Angelo.” Sherlock replied in a simple manner to the last statement, ignoring it entirely. Angelo gave Sherlock a quick wink and was just as suddenly darting away from their table back to his kitchens, John guessed.

Just like that, they were left alone. Well, alone at a table just the two of them with the candle letting shivers of gold light sweep back and forth over the two of them as it quivered. John was looking back and forth across the table, realizing that just as if he were on a first date, he wasn't quite sure how to start a proper conversation between the two of them. Sherlock on the other hand was content to peer out the window.

“So. Private detective.” John attempted after a soft clearing of his throat.

“I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world.” Sherlock corrected while he continued to look out the window, but eventually in his pause he’d turn his gaze towards his companion. “I invented the job.”

“Of course you did.” John ended up giving a small chuckle.

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.” Sherlock continued in explanation.

“The police don’t consult amateurs.”

The ears were instantly back. Darting up from Sherlock’s head in furry pointed surprise before they just as quickly darted back into dark curls to disappear again, Sherlock very clearly giving John a look after. John swallowed nervously.

Slowly Sherlock pulled himself to a more forwards stature, placing both hands on top of the table. Eventually, the look turned into a small smirk. Challenge excepted.

“Phone.” He stated.

“What about it?” John asked, while he pulled the device from his pocket and sat it on top of the table and sliding it in Sherlock’s direction.

“It’s expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you’re looking for a flat-share. You wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then. New case, old phone.” Sherlock reached over for the phone and carefully twisted it over, clicking the case off and peering at the back closely.

“Scratches. Not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. Another man wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”

“The engraving?” John asked, already knowing the answer though. Was he grinning? Yep, he was.

Twisting the phone in those long digits, Sherlock turned the back of the phone in John’s direction, as if he didn't know what was already engraved there.

_Harry Watson_  
 _From Clara_  
 _xxx_

“Harry Watson: clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently.” Turning the phone around again. “This model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble then, six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left him, he would have kept it. People do, _sentiment._ ” A sneer. “But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help. That says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don’t like his drinking.”

Sherlock had barely even paused to breathe. Sitting the phone back on the table after he had re-clipped the case back on, he slid it slowly back to John’s side with a smirk. John heard the word ‘Checkmate’ inside his own head.

“How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?” John asked, exasperated, while he put his phone back into his pocket.

Sherlock moved to dust away something from his shirt that was very obviously not there. Afterwards he turned to look back out the window, as if the conversation had suddenly turned boring once again.

“Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection. Tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone, never see a drunk’s without them.”

There was a small pause here. John didn't say anything at first, and Sherlock very pointedly didn't look back in his direction.

“That was absolutely _amazing._ ” Did John just say that? Correct again, that was him.

Sherlock quickly turned his head to John’s statement, his ears barely lifting from his head as he fought the urge to lift them entirely at the surprising comment.

“Do you think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary. Fantastic, really.”

Sherlock couldn't help from lightly tapping the table with his fingers, looking down at the appendage as if it were betraying him.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

Finally, a real grin. John had only seen a select few of those today.

“Piss off!” Sherlock replied, with a clear laugh.

In their candle lit refuge John found himself laughing along with Sherlock, and when John’s dinner arrived shortly after he found himself feeling rather warm and cozy in Sherlock’s presence as the younger man simply sipped from the single water he had ordered. The meal was rather good actually, whatever it was that Sherlock had ordered for him. The darker portions of the day were forgotten amongst the light conversation of deduction tactics that Sherlock was more than happy to inform him of, and John drank them in like a dying man back from the desert in search of water.

If John had paused to think about this, that little comparison would have been more-so correct than even he would have acknowledged to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you whom have read this far, I at least should be telling you thank you. Ive had these chapters written up for awhile now, and was honestly worried about posting them publicly. For the chosen few Ive allowed to read these, they told me they really seemed to enjoy the story so far, and I have been fighting back my worry on actually releasing it completely to the public.
> 
> This is my very first "serious" (I consider) Fanfic, and I'm hoping to eventually take this story a long way. Not sure where it will go, though I do have major ideas in plan for the future. There may or may not be singing.
> 
> If you are interested enough in wanting to beta for me, do please leave me a message. Ive got a few people that have looked over this a few times, though I could always use the extra help. I have mild dyslexia, and it is a struggle to even get anything this clean. This also causes me to write fairly slow, as I find it hard to burst out a chapter without the proper inspiration. So, if your wanting a chapter every week, I'll have to apologize. With my work/life schedule, I'm really only able to write when I can. But do know that I don't intend to abandon this. Ive worked too hard at it.
> 
> For those of you wondering, yes, a lot of aspects of the Familiar "idea" is from Supernatural. Though Ive warped a few things for my personal enjoyment.
> 
> Critique, ideas, anything is very welcome. And thank you again.


	5. Dawn of a new day.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bond normally shows both individuals involved to exhibit a burst to their natural strengths when together. A physical relationship between a Familiar and its owner is seen as taboo, and looked upon with scorn. Once a Familiar has found their ‘master’, they are unable to leave them, nor find another, and are still subject to direct orders. They still retain their ability to switch between their more human form, and their animal aspect at free will. Telepathy is still available, though only to their master, whom also can still block this ability if they decide to.

By the time John noticed just how late it was getting, their candle had nearly burned down to nothing, and the rest of Angelo’s had grown quiet. It took a quick glance around mid-conversation to notice they were the only two people still in the restaurant, and the establishment had actually closed nearly an hour and a half ago.

Quickly issuing Angelo some apologies as they made their way out towards the street, John found himself taking in a deeper breath of the night air to fill out his lungs in a stretch. A few small pops of his lower back and he knew he was going to be greeted with more in the morning if his body was already trying to voice its disapproval of their adventure earlier that day.

And it had been an adventure hadn't it? It was a thought to muse over while Sherlock stepped nearer to the street to raise his hand for a mere few seconds before a cab was already pulling over. John would have been surprised at the cabby’s quickness to respond, but after having spent a day with the taller gentleman he already knew that Sherlock’s presence demanded attention. John guessed that talent crossed over to cab drivers as well.

On their way back to Baker street, it was oddly quiet in the back of their cab. Unusual that they had spent the last few hours in a driven conversation only to go mute on the way back to their home. John did not voice this opinion though, as his brain was already attempting to wind down after the long day and the sound of wheels on pavement and cars passing by on semi-wet pavement was a calming feature of living in London. So, instead of striking a conversation to the quiet man across the seat, he leaned his head against the glass of his window and closed his eyes.

It seemed only seconds that John had to himself in his restful pose before Sherlock softly shook his shoulder, and then opened the door to slide out onto the sidewalk. Their new cab driver was looking back at John expectantly and without much thought John handed over their fair and scooted himself out of the vehicle.

Sherlock was already making his way inside, if the closing door had anything to indicate. Twisting his cane to his left hand, John threw a hand up to keep it from closing all the way and attempted to follow. Though by the time John had made sure the door was locked behind him, Sherlock was already up the stairs and inside their own flat with their own door wide open and waiting. Giving a small shrug John made it up the stairs, not giving much thought to how easier it seemed to climb them.

Once inside, he caught Sherlock in mid-movement of pulling off his coat. Though the man paused as the heavy cloth had barely crossed back over his shoulders and had turned to look at John with a thoughtful expression once he had made it inside. John only blinked at the odd gesture that Sherlock had stopped to look at him in, and quite innocently quirked his head to the side in a silent question.

Sherlock’s gaze drifted from John, to the floor, and back to the coat rack on the wall under John’s inquisitive but silent reply to his stalling. Eventually he gave a roll of his eyes, and yanked off the coat in a single fluid motion that sent the thing flying against the wall and just barely making it onto the hook itself. Just as quickly, Sherlock twisted about and made his way into the living room.

Only then did John notice exactly why Sherlock had been stalling. The turning motion that was produced to send him into the living room gave John a full broad on look as a long black tail was uncoiled from Sherlock’s waist, flinging out in furry ‘tuffed glory as it also seemed to need a stretch. John was left wide eyed, even as Sherlock moved out of view once he had flopped onto the couch. Well, almost out of view. That tail draped over the back end of the couch, the tip twitching back and forth.

John had already known about the ears. That was fine. But apparently the man also had a _tail_.

No wonder John hadn't actually seen him remove the coat till now. As he was attempting to bring himself back to a normal stature while putting his own coat up, he remembered that Sherlock at most times kept his ears hidden within the curls atop his head, and only seemed to lift them among certain individuals. If he was self conscious about those appendages, one could only guess he was equally as conscious about the tail, if not more so.

The tail? No. Sherlock’s tail. Nothing strange about it. He was a Familiar after all.

John wasn't about to let this added information differ him from stepping in the room and looking to the man sprawled over the couch. Sherlock had flopped down onto his back with his left arm falling off the edge of the couch while stretched out along the length of the furniture as best his long body could somehow allow. Both his ears had risen from his head and were just barely twitching, along with the same twitching his tail still seemed to be doing in mimicked action. John guessed after a long day of keeping both hidden, it was probably a relief to let them adhere to their actual normal positions. Not that he thought Sherlock would actually admit that.

With a slight smile crossing over his face, John peeked to the stairs where he guessed led to his room.

“Well, I better be going to bed, it is quite late.”

No response from the lump of Familiar taking up the couch.

John found that he was not too bothered by the lack of communication though, instead he left the detective sprawled out and made his way up the stairs, down the small hallway to the end room, which was cracked partially open.

On slowly pushing the door open, John was met with both a pleasant clean smell, and something that might have been fresh paint at some point. Inside held most of his belongings among the white walls, not all of his furniture, but at least the pieces that John knew he actually cared about. His bed was done in proper order against the wall, with his bedside table, lamp, and digital clock next to it. Alongside his small chester drawer was his desk on the opposite wall, next to what looked like a closet. His laptop had been placed almost delicately on top of his desk with the same chair he had been using pulled slightly out from the desk itself, as if waiting for someone to sit in it. Near the wall with his bed, he even had a small window of his own.

Well, Mycroft was nothing if not precise. It was as if John had been staying here for months.

While pondering just how Mycroft had painted the room and have it dry in the span of half a day and night, John had moved to sit down onto his bed, toeing his shoes off and was about to work on the rest of his clothing when his hands brushed against the bed covering. Blinking, he twisted slightly in his seat to look at the bed itself.

John had a brand new pillow, and coverings, for his bed. They were simple, just like his usual taste, but new none the less. As he was reaching over with his right hand to run his fingers over the material of the pillow itself, he stopped mid way, catching himself looking down at his hand.

He remembered re-gloving both hands after the _incident_. Though, on actually looking at the appendage itself, it brought the entire night back into the foremost quarter of John’s thoughts.

John felt his eyes narrow as the night’s proceedings echoed inside his head in a jumble of sounds and emotions. Lifting his left hand he very slowly pulled at the leather covered fingers of his right, and removed the leather glove to let it flop onto the bed beside him. Slowly turning his now exposed right palm up he wiggled his fingers experimentally. Of course though, nothing untold happened from this.

Giving a tired shake of his head, John was careful to use his left gloved hand to reach towards his waist and under the current jumper he was wearing where he had slipped his gun. Pulling it out, he simply pulled open the small drawer connected to his bedside table with his ungloved hand, to place the weapon carefully inside and re-close it, making sure not to actually touch the weapon itself was his exposed skin. He was just much too tired to place the gun back into his normal desk at this time.

Using a similar flopping motion that he had seen Sherlock use only minutes before, John was laying on his side on the bed, head enveloped into what he could only guess was a goose-down pillow. It took everything he had not to let out a groan at the much softer version of his original pillow.

As John was slowly drifting off, without even having finished removing his clothes, or his last glove, he found himself thinking that even though all his stuff had been moved and carefully placed into his new home, that was still no reason for him to actually _like_ Mycroft.

John’s cane had been haphazardly left leaning near the door-frame of his room, door still open.

* * *

Regardless that he did not have anywhere he had to be the next morning, John still woke up fairly early for most people. Something else he could easily blame the army for, and with a stretch across his bed he also blamed the army for having fallen asleep without removing most of his clothes. At least he had got his shoes off before passing out.

Did he actually want to get up? The goose-down pillow he had been given still felt just as heavenly as it did last night. Having slept on his back most of the night, John rolled over onto his front, wrapping both arms around the pillow as he enveloped his face into the feathery-filled goodness with a deep content sigh.

What morning light he was being given from his window was falling across his back, warming up the sore muscles under his jumper as he stretched his legs out. The stretch forced his hips to press firmly against the mattress, and for a second he was reminded of a certain morning ritual he hadn't been in the mood for most of those depressing mornings he had been having. Well, new room, new lifestyle, time to change that shouldn't we? John thought to himself with a smirk.

Flipping himself back over with a thump against the bed, John already had one hand draped over the end of the bed and was grabbing for a very certain box that he knew he always had handy just for these certain situations that _arose_. He was in mid-snicker of his own internal joke when he noticed his door to his room was open. John paused, hadn't he closed it last night?

And where was his cane? He could close the door that way without getting up. Instead, the traitorous object was leaning against the frame of the very doorway that was irritating his mood. John had a short mental struggle as he glared at the cane as if the inanimate object was mocking him. John was sure it was.

Fine then. It wasn't as if John H. Watson hadn't ever had to wank off silently. Thank you for that too, army.

It didn't keep him from muttering a silent curse over at the doorway though, he still had his left hand gloved at least, like _hell_ he was going to touch any of his bits and risk shocking himself there, and he wasn't about to let something as a little open door kill his mood. The entire flat was quiet, and if John stayed quiet, then it would be just fine.

Everything was just dandy in John’s mind as he went back to re-reach for the box under his bed. A few failed grabs, but he eventually found it and yanked it out to join him. Laying back down he let the box lay on his chest as he slipped the lid up and off, tilting it up towards his face so he could look at the contents. All he would really need is one of his magazines…

John was only an instant through that thought, and his one gloved hand already half-unclasping his jeans before he suddenly realized. His box was right where he had left it, correct. But that had been in his _old_ flat, and now he was in his new room where he had been moved in by other people.

Oh now _that_ was the mood killer right there. Someone having gone through his private things. His _really really private, things_. John got the feeling that whomever Mycroft had hired to move his things had not been very secretive about looking through his belongings. It was one thing about getting off with an open doorway, someone going through his _private stuff_ was something else entirely.

Slowly John slipped the lid of the box back on, and with a sigh scooted it back under his bed with a slight shudder. Maybe tomorrow, he’d get over the thought of someone going through his private box tomorrow, surely, yeah, John kept telling himself.

It wasn't like he didn't need a shower after having slept in all his clothes. Where was the shower anyways?

For the time being, John was distracted from his previous thoughts of how his day _should_ have started, and instead he was pulling himself up from the bed, grabbing a change of clothes, and heading out to the small hallway that connected his room to the stairwell. There was really no need to be quiet now anyways, so when John stepped into the empty living room, he turned his head down the hallway that connected to the kitchen.

“Morning, Sherlock!”

Pause. No reply.

‘Hming to himself, John shrugged and turned to step down the hallway, this gave John with a room on his left, and a room directly in front of him, which meant that the door at the end of the hall had to be Sherlock’s room.

With a turn of the left door’s knob John found the bathroom, and amazingly enough, clean towels folded on the back of the toilet. John had a small hunch that he should later be thanking Mrs Hudson for those, rather than his now suddenly absent flatmate.

“Well! I’m going to take a shower, if you are here or not! Just so you know!”

More silence.

John stood outside the bathroom for a moment longer, regarding Sherlock’s door with a curious expression. There was no way the Familiar wouldn't have heard him if he was still in the flat. Maybe he’d went out for some reason? He might be asleep, but John doubted that the man really slept hard enough to not hear anything at all, he just didn't seem the type.

Shrugging, John turned and headed into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

* * *

What John didn't know, _yet_ , was that he had only been half right about Sherlock’s sleeping habits.

Sherlock was currently in his room, having switched out to his favorite light blue dressing gown and little else but a pair of cloth pants to go with it. He would have normally still been in the living room, though with the closing of the case he figured he might as well attempt to catch a little sleep. He never slept while on cases, and he wanted to be fully awake whenever the next one arose, so now was the best time to catch up on that bodily flaw.

The problem was, Sherlock wasnt sleeping. After both a failed attempt on the couch, and now a failed attempt in his own bed, Sherlock decided that it was the conclusion of last night’s case events were the real reason he wasn't able to fall asleep. Sherlock knew he didn't fall asleep while on cases, and even though the case had been solved as far as the police were concerned, it still left too wide a hole for this detective to truly move on from and call closed entirely.

So when John had woken up and made his way down to take his shower, which Sherlock thought had taken a little too long, he was laid up in his bed with hands perched under his chin even in his laying down position. Indeed he had heard John attempt to get his attention, he just didn't really feel like answering. Why should he bother? He had much more important things to ponder about.

At least he had found a comfortable position, head slightly perched forwards from the pillow. Both furry ears instinctively tilted towards his bedroom door as he heard the water start to run in the bathroom. His hearing did not have to be good enough to hear through a single wall, and soon after he folded both down against his skull to try to block out the noise. Yes, his hearing was good, too good sometimes.

Either that, or Sherlock was just easily annoyed by almost anything. Not that he would admit that.

Speaking of easily annoyed, though…

_“Could you let down your hair. Be transparent for awhile, just a little while…”_

….what was that?

_“To see if you're human after all.”_

Sherlock ripped himself out of bed at the sound of that last phrase. What was John doing? Singing in the shower? How completely mundane, boring, and _distracting_. Giving a slight growl under his breath, _idiotic lyrics_ , he was about to slam open his door to give John the chance to be quiet once he realized Sherlock was actually in the flat. The slightly graveled voice under the shower spray was continuing, though. Sherlock wasn't sure why, but he grabbed his door right as it was about to slam into the wall, keeping himself quiet, listening.

_“Honesty is a hard attribute to find. When we all want to seem like, we've got it all figured out…”_

Carefully, Sherlock slipped through his own door and hovered near the closed bathroom door. With a mind of it’s own, his tail casually lifted from under his gown to hoop around the door handle, where it hovered and twitched.

_“Well let me be the first to say that I don't have a clue, I don't have all the answers…”_

A pause, muffled laugh, it sounded like John might have been turning around in the shower. Maybe he was attempting to be quiet, but Sherlock could hear everything just fine. Specially, with one of ears cupped to the side of the door. When did that happen?

_“Ain't gonna to pretend like I do.”_

* * *

John had honestly thought he was alone in the flat, so after a small struggle with getting the water started, removal of clothes, he’d gotten into the shower and hovered under the blasting shower-head. He was reminded that he had made sure to be wearing both gloves, not wanting to electrocute anything with the metal piping, when his hands felt even more constricted in the wet heat the shower provided. With a sigh, he shook out his head, water splashing against the curtain in turn.

There was one other slightly guilty pleasure John had…and to bloody hell with it.

John enjoyed music, even though he knew he was rubbish at singing. So usually it was just something he filed away for when his private time wasn't involving _other_ activities. Both of which, he had not been in the mood for before coming to Baker street. With one pleasure having been _creepily_ crossed out, might as well indulge in the other while he was alone.

He found some soap, thankfully. Even if it did smell rather bland, if not a bit sweet, and John wasn't going to be picky about it. He could just buy his own soap later. Lifting his head up away from the spray, he lathered himself up to wash. John brought to mind an older song that he had enjoyed the lyrics from years ago. He remembered the lyrics seemed rather informative to his life.

* * *

_“Just trying, to find my way. Trying, to find my way the best I know how.”_

It was only a part of a song, as far as Sherlock knew. With the water shortly after being shut off, he knew he only had a few seconds to make it to the living room before John opened the door to find him standing outside of it. In any other circumstance maybe he wouldn't have cared, but…

Sherlock was already flinging himself back down onto the couch, and attempting to put the strange moment out of his mind as John’s singing had turned into quiet humming instead.

* * *

John took a last scrub at his scalp with a towel after he had put on fresh clothes, feeling insanely better after the shower. He was still humming even as he reached down to grab his old clothes and the other towel he has used to dry off with, opening the bathroom door he moved down the hallway, through the kitchen only to find…

That Sherlock was draped back over the couch, looking as if he was wearing only a dressing gown. Chest bare to the world of two two one B, but at least he had remembered pants!

Startled, John nearly dropped his handful of future laundry. Twisting his head about, he looked back down the hallway he had come to find that sure enough, the ending room’s door was wide open. Sherlock had been here the entire time.

Well, maybe he hadn't heard anything? John did have the shower running after all…

“Going to stand precisely there all morning, are we John?” Came the baritone voice from the couch.

John felt his face heat up at the sound, only to force himself to cough before he looked back at the Familiar. Both ears had swiveled partially backwards on Sherlock’s exposed curls where his head rested on the armrest of the couch, figuring that he could tell where John easily was by sound alone. The thought didn't make him feel any better about his mild singing. At least he hadn't went along with today’s earlier plan with the door open!

“I didn’t know you were home, said good morning earlier.” He replied soon after.

Not that he was actually expecting to get a answer _this_ time either.

After he waited for what John figured was a polite enough time for Sherlock to respond, he eventually gave a shrug and worked his way up the stairs so he could put his dirty laundry in his room. He would take care of cleaning later. When he did make it back down to the living room, Sherlock was still perched on the couch unmoving and John found that this was hardly surprising. Pausing by the doorway to the kitchen he laid his gloved hand against the frame and looked back to his flatmate.

“Breakfast? Tea?” John tried for conversation.

“Tea.” Sherlock replied.

Giving a nod, John walked into the kitchen and stopped long enough to survey what he had to work with, placing his hands on his hips.

He had partially seen the kitchen before, but now that he had the task of somehow coming up with food for himself, and more importantly the tea, he felt rather lost. To say the room was a mess, would have been like calling a garbage bin a suitable place to store food. There were beakers and glass tubes of different sizes and sorts across the kitchen table, either filled or not. He wasn't quite sure what was in the sink along with the dishes that he figured Mrs Hudson had put there the day before. 

_Brave woman_ , John thought for the moment.

Along with the mess, he didn't find anything that remotely looked like food across any of the counters, and on looking into the cupboards he only found some dusty dishes and mugs. Pulling two of the mugs out and carefully placing them on the cleaner looking portion of the counter, he moved onto the fridge.

John liked to think he was a brave man, but even he flinched on opening the fridge door.

“Sherlock…”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock’s voice came slightly muffled from the living room.

“Is that...skin? Human skin? In the fridge?”

“I am calculating the amount of hair growth on the human skin after death, depending on the age and health of the deceased, and to see if the types of death would have any adding factors of change.”

“Your...yeah, okay.” John quickly closed the fridge while lifting a hand to rub at his face. He didn't dare ask what else was in there. Better to take the time to psyche himself up to conquer the fridge later. His appetite was long gone now.

Tea. John really needed tea.

“Second jar to the fridge, on the left. Third cupboard over the stove, after. I take sugar in mine, first jar to the right of the stove.” Sherlock’s voice again.

Blinking, John instinctively followed the orders and found that the first jar held teabags, and that would work just fine, he wasn't picky. Moving to the stove to pull open the particular cupboard mentioned, it took a minute before John found a slightly dented kettle which he grabbed.

Delicately, trying not to _touch_ anything inside the sink, he got the kettle filled with water and placed on the stove, giving a little sigh of relief as he turned it on to boil. Luckily the stove seemed to work just fine and after a few minutes John was pouring and dunking teabags into the mugs he had found, after he braved the sink again to wash them out first. With a few drawers pulled open he eventually found a spoon, rinsed off, and got the sugar that Sherlock had mentioned, spilling out the delicate clear shards into the steamy water.

“Two spoonfuls.” Sherlock, again.

Quirking a brow, John applied the second spoonful. He wasn't the type of man that should be judging anyone on how they took their tea.

Grabbing the mugs, John stepped out to the living room and placed Sherlock’s tea on the table close enough for him to grab it if he wished, and took his own place in the chair he had sat in the day before. Shifting his body against the union pillow to get comfortable before swirling around his own tea to strengthen it and taking a sip. The day was looking better with the warmth and caffeine added to it.

Sherlock still hadn't moved to access his tea, but at this point John was simply pleased to have his own. 

When John had taken that moment for himself to enjoy his tea, he looked over the top of his mug to watch the detective on the couch. Sherlock was laid out with his head still leaning against the armrest, folded hands on his bare chest,for a portion of his gown had fallen down and was barely brushing against the floor. His tail was slung back over the backside of the couch again, with the tip out of view, but John could mentally see it twitching in thought. Pulling his gaze back up, John watched both ears gently flicking atop the dark curls.

“You can ask for a closer look.”

“...What?” John lowered his mug and looked wide eyed to his closed-eyed flatmate.

At John’s question, Sherlock did finally open his eyes to throw a glare over at John. Both of his ears lowering dangerously close to disappearing.

“I dislike having to repeat myself, John.”

“Um...yes. Apologies. I just did not understand.” John said quietly.

Before Sherlock graced him with an explanation, he lifted to a sitting position on the couch in a single fluid movement that also swirled his body around to face John. John barely blinked, and Sherlock was already leaning forwards with elbows on his knees. Pointing a finger at John, one of Sherlock’s ears shifted lazily to the side.

“You have reacted to the physical characteristics of my race in such a way that has made you easy to deduce. The lingering stares, slight startlement, and uneasiness are clear examples that you are not only uncomfortable with them, but uncomfortable with yourself because of the feelings that you are receiving on seeing them. This indicates that you are not racist, as I am sure you have created a mental mantra for yourself to try to prove the fact, but that you're uncomfortable for an entirely different reason.”

…Well then. John kept silent.

“Taking the two aspects of your previous job positions, Doctor,” Pausing, Sherlock stuck out his finger of his right hand. “and army.” A second finger joined the first. “The first would have given you at least slight medical knowledge of Familiars, but then you changed your training. A change that would have put you with a mostly, if not all, human troop in the army because you are not a Familiar yourself. Your medical training would have changed to suit the needs you would need in that position and thus, any more knowledge about Familiars would have have been a mute point after the first lessons that you had to take to even get into the medical practice in the first place. You, John, are not very used to being around Familiars at all. This isn't even including the knowledge of your all-human family.”

John looked at the floor for a moment, everything Sherlock had deduced was true enough but…

Sherlock snapped his fingers to catch John’s attention again, causing him to startle slightly. On looking back at Sherlock, John noticed the Familiar’s eyes had grown slightly bigger, ears pulled forwards and cupped in his direction with little movement. His tail was softly thumping the edge of the couch. John was being studied.

“But that's only at the surface, isn't it John? You were removed from the army, gunshot wound and all that nasty business. Most people wouldn't look further than that as the reason why you were brought home. But a gunshot wound is still a gunshot wound, and in the middle of warfare I bet you were not the only doctor around. If you were found still alive, there would have been some sort of backup. You could have been treated, you only got shot in the arm after all. Tremor or not, they need all they can get on site don't they? You would have found someway to stay.”

Yes, John would have at the time, done anything to stay. Even if that meant he was only good at bandaging people up rather than having to cut a bullet out of anyone. Even though Sherlock was correct, John couldn't help narrowing his eyes slightly, he did not like where this conversation was going. This did nothing to stop the only consulting detective in the world when he was on a roll.

“I deduce, that when you got shot, you were shot by an enemy Familiar. That would be a conclusive reason to your uneasy stature around Familiars, and would also be a proper explanation in you feeling suddenly guilty at the personal revelation, but maybe not this guilty, no.” Sherlock paused. 

“Uncomfortable. You are uncomfortable over all. Your wound it was not , _is not_ , normal. It changed _you_.”

“That's enough, Sherlock.” John pushed himself out of his chair and made his way to move into the kitchen to drop of his half-full mug of now cold tea. He was done with this conversation, he couldn't do this right now.

“I was going to allow you to examine my ears.” Sherlock’s voice from the living room, was that innocence John was hearing? Hardly.

When John made his way back into the living room and towards the door, he couldn't help but scowl over in Sherlock’s direction. The detective had laid back down, though now on his front, arms crossed over the armrest and head lifted to watch him. Those bloody ears were still pointed forwards in his direction.

“It would help to dissipate the uneasiness if you knew the anatomy more properly.”

Now why in the hell would John want to do that? John still felt himself swallow though, and his stomach felt like it was attempting to tie itself into knots. Having seen the man deduce before had been an enlightening experience for John, but when he found himself laid bare rather than simply prodded at, well...not right now.

“Maybe later, I’ll be back.” John moved to grab his coat.

“Where are you going?”

“Well someone has to get some real food in this place.”

Sherlock paused at that, slowly his ears folded back against his skull to hide as he inspected John while he stood at the door.

“I could use some air, too.” Well, neither excuse was a lie.

With a frustrated huff, Sherlock turned away from John and curled up with his back to him.

Taking that as his cue, John stepped out, though he already knew he would be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Trying” Lyrics belong to Lifehouse.  
> I don't take any credit for these at all, though I advise you to go listen to the song. It is quite nice.
> 
> Much love to everyone, and anyone, that takes time out of their day to wander through my little edge of AU. <3


	6. PIN Machines & Pinheads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wasn't one to give up any of his prizes once he had found them.

It wasn't that Sherlock had never been on the other side of a slamming door before. Even with Mycroft having gone off to school when he was younger for most of his childhood, the few times he had been around, their home had been filled with enough slamming doors that their parents had attempted to soften the door frames with a fabric coating to keep the sound from echoing painfully. Sherlock had ripped his off in a manner of days in retaliation.  
  
So, why did this sound seem to bother him? A twist of his body and lifting his head from the couch, he let his chin prop atop the arm rest. Sherlock stared at the now closed door with one ear lifting above the other still hidden in his hair, tail having swept from the back of the couch to fold itself among his legs.  
  
John was proving to be a bit more interesting than even he had expected. There were not many things that left Sherlock feeling as if he had missed something vital. One second John was praising his deductions, the next he was running away as if Sherlock had done something completely different. Obviously he had offended him in some way, slamming door and all.  
  
Sherlock scowled, why was this bothering him? With a throaty growl he pushed himself off the couch and hopped to his feet. Without bothering to even straighten his gown, he made his way to the stairs. He had much better things to do rather than be repetitive even in his own mind. Which was twice as annoying, he might add. Heaven forbid, _bloody hell he was thinking in religious phrases now_ , he allow himself to lower to the monotonous IQ of the commonwealth.  
  
Instead, Sherlock had an entire new room to explore since John was gone.

* * *

  
 _Beep….Beep….Beep. Unexpected Item in bagging area. Please try again._  
  
John growled under his breath in a similar manner that a certain Familiar had done just moments go himself. Looking down to the few groceries he had attempted to pick up, John eventually caught the gaze of the people behind him in line. He was currently not getting any friendly looks. Giving a slightly nervous chuckle at the people behind him, he quickly tried scanning the item again.  
  
And….nothing. Franticly John waved the item over again, and again, and _again_.  
  
 _Item not scanned. Please try again._  
  
“I have tried _again_ you bollocks for brains!” John finally cracked, slinging the head of lettuce down.  
  
 _Beep. Unexpected Item in the bagging area. Please try again._  
  
“Stick it up your metal coated _arse!_ ”

 

* * *

  
Jumper, jeans, jumper, another coat, jumper, _how many jumpers could one man own?_ Sherlock was currently digging through John’s closet where most of his larger clothes had been hung, or had hung, if the case may be. Most had been yanked out and thrown onto the floor behind him to scatter across the room. Except for a certain jumper he had found that had been a hideous pea-green and off-red color, causing his tail to bristle in disgust. No, I do not think so, not in his flat. That particular monstrosity had been tossed out the window with an extravagant flourish of limbs and a yelling of: “Begone, loathsome creature, and trouble us no more!”  
  
Smacking his hands clean of the feel of the material, he had gone back to the closet, sweeping what was left of the clothes aside to see the bottom. A single dark green duffel bag, and a closed-lid box was all that was left. Leaving the bag for last, Sherlock nudged the top of the box’s lid off with a foot and peered down.  
  
“Really, John?” The box was filled with an array of old CD cases. Most had long since lost their covers, and the plastic was left scratched with a cloudy white hue. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock used the same foot to flip through a few of them. Nothing catching his eye of course, **BORING** his mind screamed.  
  
At least the duffel bag had proved to be a little more interesting. He had to lean over to unzip it, and found what he already figured he would, a jumbled mess of army related belongings. A few shirts stuffed in, what looked to be a map of some sort that barely got a two second glance, a pair of boots that he found still had some sand in them. Grabbing one of the boots he drew it up and wiggled in mid-air to allow some of the rock particles to fall into his other open palm. _At least I will have something to do later_ , he thought to himself, pocketing the tiny rocks into his gown.  
  
Dropping the boot back into the bag haphazardly, he was about to kick the clothes back into the closet, except for that last second he was sure he had heard something metallic rattle in the bag. Slowly he turned his body back to the closet, both ears twitched forwards and he took a moment to considered what it may be. Finally he dropped to his knees and thrust both hands into the duffel bag to find it, tail whipping behind him to cause his gown to sling back and forth.  
  
After a few minutes of shuffling around inside the bag, he found it. Drawing up his prize in front of his face, a pair of dog tags dangled from his fingers. Blinking he brought them closer to his face to twist and turn them in the light with a scattering of dust particles.  
  
Sherlock wouldn't dare admit it, he didn't even like admitting it to himself, but given the nature of his species’s decision he was still a victim of some baser urges. He had spent years attempting to reign in a level of control that would put these nuisances of character into their place. If only he could delete his species flaws in general, but instead he had attempted to lock them away in his mind palace. Sadly, he knew how to pick locks, which meant they did too, something to that effect he supposed.  
  
Thankfully he was alone, sitting on his knees while holding the tags slightly above his head while his other hand lightly batted at the metal to make it clank and clink. They were rather _shiny_ …

* * *

  
John let his card slip through the slot of the chip-and-PIN machine with a well worn sigh. Minus one head of lettuce, he had finally got everything scanned.  
  
 _Card not authorized. Please use an alternative method of payment._  
  
Deep breath, Watson. You got this. He tried his card again.  
  
 _Card not authorized. Please use an alternative method of payment._  
  
John already had his hand up to his face where he was about to yank off his glove with his teeth to give this poxy machine a shocking revelation of exactly who the bloody fucking hell was actually in charge here, when he was interrupted by a fellow behind him that had coughed into his closed fist.  
  
“Fine then. Bugger it.”  
  
Dropping his groceries, John simply thrust his fists into his pockets and moved to leave the store in a festering huff of continued high annoyance.

* * *

  
Flinging himself onto his couch, Sherlock only made it back to his earlier position just in time for John to open their flat’s door. He was already calling it their flat, wasn't he just thinking earlier that this was his flat? The thought was perfectly timed to keep him in a thinking position on the couch as John slung his coat back on the rack, only to look over to Sherlock’s stretched out form.  
  
“You going to sit there all morning, are you?” He mentioned, rather darkly.  
  
“Hm?” Sherlock all-but replied, blinking his eyes open and curiously peering over in John’s direction. Looking him up and down, he used an arm to shove himself up to a sitting position, using his tail to indicate and point at John’s form. “You didn't get the shopping.”  
  
“No shit, Sherlock.” John put his gloved hands on his hips and glared daggers.  
  
Sherlock did his best to force himself to keep from scowling at the tone. He had already upset John once today, and did want to avoid making him any more agitated than he already was. That, and the current situation did give access to a solution to the issue that he hadn't had time to shove John’s clothes back into his closet by the time he had heard him walking up the stairs.  
  
“Why not?” Sherlock gave a slight tilting of his head, allowing his ears to just barely fold down, hoping it gave him a more innocent air around him.  
  
“I had a row with the chip-and-PIN machine…” John muttered a bit, seeming a little off-put by Sherlock’s display of ‘little-ole-innocent-me’.  
  
“A row...with a machine.” Sherlock raised a brow.  
  
“Yes, the bloody PIN machine, Sherlock.” John huffed again. “Well, sort of. Mostly me cursing at it.”  
  
Here’s his chance, Sherlock gave his best I-can-solve-this-problem smile and flung his fingers out towards their kitchen.  
  
“Take my card.”  
  
John blinked, twisting his body about to look at where the Familiar had indicated, and there on the table was a wallet. Walking into the room he picked it up, giving it a once over as he twisted the leather in his fingers, before looking back at his flatmate with a curious glance.  
  
“You haven't moved an inch since I left, you could always go yourself.”  
  
Sherlock gave a pointed roll of his eyes at the very notion he was going to do something as mundane as shopping. It wasn't even as if he ate that much anyways.  
  
“Ugh, alright, alright…” John gave up the argument before it had even started, he was getting tired at this point. Might as well try to give the shopping another chance. Pocketing the wallet he went back for his coat, slipped it on while opening the door. “Don’t wait up.”  
  
“Of course, John.” Sherlock replied, before slipping back down onto the couch on his back, ears laying back against the cushioned seat as he got comfortable again, tail curling about mildly at the tip, an inch above the floor.  
  
Tutting under his breath, John slipped out of the flat.  
  
Once he heard John having left the building, Sherlock reached into his gown where he knew one of the inner pockets lay, and drew out the chain holding the tags he had found. Something in the back of his mind told him that he should be putting them back, but as he twirled them in mid air to watch the chain wrap about his fingers, it was a thought flung back into the dark where it had came from.  
  
Sherlock wasn't one to give up any of his prizes once he had found them.  
  
Lifting himself up from the couch, he made his way back upstairs to cover his tracks.

 

* * *

  
Some time later, John was still cursing under his breath as he dragged himself and the shopping bags up the stairway by himself. At the top, he took a moment to straighten his back with a slight wince, before opening the door and struggling to get both himself and the bags through all in one go.  
  
As he twisted his over-loaded frame into the kitchen, he found that Sherlock had finally decided to move for the day, get dressed, and was currently tapping onto a laptop that looked…  
  
“Is that _my_ laptop?” John suddenly questioned even before the thought had fully developed. Having paused with the shopping still in tow.  
  
“Mm.” Sherlock hummed lightly, taking his sweet time before casually letting his head roll back to peer at John. “Of course.”  
  
John found himself growling under his breath again as he stuttered his way over to the counter to thrust the bags onto. Turning around, he huffed loudly in Sherlock’s direction with both hands back on his hips.  
  
“What, and you just couldn't be bothered to go get your own, hm?”  
  
“Mine was in the bedroom.” Sherlock had already went back to typing, seeming to ignore John’s presence for the most part besides the half-muttered reply.  
  
“It was password protected, Sherlock. For a reason.”  
  
“Trivial, really.” Sherlock paused only to stretch his neck to the right with a soft popping noise, before going back to whatever he was currently engaged in. “Took me less than a minute to figure yours out. Not exactly Fort Knox.”  
  
With that, John had enough of the current debate, and he intended on ending it his way. Slinging a hand out he snapped the top of the laptop down, barely avoiding Sherlock’s fingers as the Familiar snatched both his hands away at the last second. Shaking a finger in Sherlock’s face, John used his other arm to sweep across the table and latch onto his laptop, putting it under one arm and headed into the living room, completely ignoring that he hadn't put any of the shopping away.  
  
Sherlock could only sit there and blink as he was left with hands hovering awkwardly in front of him. After a second he slung a dark look at John’s retreating form before following him and flinging his body back onto the couch, though this time he positioned himself sitting up so that he could steeple both hands under his chin. Just to make sure John got a full broad on look of displeasure of having been deprived from the computer.  
  
John was having none of that guilt trip business though, and on sitting down to what he recognized as his chair, he sat the laptop down next to him on the floor. Leaning it against the chair himself as if he did not care that he was currently getting glared at.  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth we a retort to John’s suddenly aloofness, but quickly closed in on realizing he did not really want John to leave again, or even permanently, if Sherlock kept the current act up. Instead, he figured he would attempt to derail whatever argument they were silently having.  
  
“It is later, now.”  
  
“Eh?” John looked to Sherlock, giving that slight tilt to his frame that allowed him to slide his bad leg forwards on the carpet to a more comfortable position.  
  
“You said, maybe later. Well, according to the current time frame, right now would be an approximate time after your statement. Thus, it is now later.”  
  
“Oh.” Well, he was correct after all. John leaned forwards slightly. “The ears thing? That is what you were offering?”  
  
“Yes, John.” Honestly, did John forget things so easily? He was going to get rather annoyed, rather quick if he was going to have to end up repeating everything all the time, Sherlock grumbled. “I said, you could take a closer look, and that I believed it would make you more comfortable in our living conditions.”  
  
“It isn’t a condition, Sherlock.” John replied in a suddenly troubled tone.  
  
“I did not mean it like that, _obviously_.” Sherlock sneered with another vibrant roll of his eyes. Instead he scooted himself over on the couch and lightly patted the seat next to him.  
  
Thinking that he might as well get this over with, John found that he was already getting up from his chair to sit down next to Sherlock. Even though his body seemed to be moving on it’s own to the offer, it didn't help the slight knot John was feeling in his stomach. Twisting slightly to the side he looked atop Sherlock’s head.

“Um, how…”  
  
Sherlock quite suddenly thrust his head towards John’s direction in a snapping motion.  
  
“Well, go on then. _Inspect_.”  
  
John swallowed, before giving himself a mental shake. He needed to quit acting like he was suddenly a teenager again and all thoughts of touching another person was anything but normal. He was a doctor, damn it. Squaring his shoulders back, he lifted a still gloved hand to lightly trace his fingers through a few of Sherlock’s side curls where one would have normally found his human ears.  
  
What John wasn't prepared for was the fact that Sherlock had no human ears at all. Sure, he figured that it would be out of place to have two different sets, but it was still very unnerving for his fingers to trace over a set of small muscles felt under his hair along the sides of his skull. Letting his fingers draw back to them, he traced them up slowly where they laced under the skin of Sherlock’s skull, and up to the two furry appendages that were curiously lifted, and very still. From what John could tell, Sherlock’s cat ears actually started where his human ears would have normally been, and simply elongated up over his skull and to the set above.  
  
Without realizing it, he was already leaning forwards and letting his fingers drift over the small muscles, up and down, tracing one of Sherlock’s ears as he went. It was amazing really how they had evolved. He suspected that Sherlock’s ear canal was actually more atop his head, rather than situated on the side where it should have been. All this no one would be able to tell without this close of a look, everything below the curls that were actually attached to the ears was coated in that soft looking black fur, more of a fuzz really the lower John went towards Sherlock’s neck. John ended up wishing he could take off his gloves to see how soft it was.  
  
Sherlock had thought that letting John explore, was going to be no big deal. A silly meaningless act that would allow him to be more comfortable in their flat around him so that Sherlock wouldn't be forced to tiptoe around him. Not that he would have actually done so, but he was going to at least attempt to avoid the entire situation. If that meant letting John actually touch his ears, so be it.  
  
Instead, he was sitting there was his teeth clenched. The light touches that John was giving to the muscles attached to his ears actually felt _good_ , like he was being given a light head massage. Was that what one felt like? He’d never let anyone touch his ears in such a manner, and was suddenly questioning exactly why had he decided that it was okay for John to do so? It had seemed like a good plan at the time, but now he was fighting with those stupid bodily urges not to preen against the feeling. Sherlock Holmes was _not_ a house cat!  
  
John had barely even noticed, now that he was adding new details about the Familiar’s biology to memory. He’d moved on from tracing muscles with his fingers to the ears themselves. John had never owned a cat before, his mother had been allergic, but it wasn't as if he had never been in the presence of a feline before. As far as he could tell, after the appendages moved on from simply being attached to Sherlock’s skull, they were pretty much that, a pair of cat ears. They both tapered off to soft rounded points, the insides being just as dark as the outsides, with only the slight feel of small membranes inside each fold. John figured they worked alot like a normal cat’s ears would, with most of the movement muscles being attached along the lower frame. Twisting his head about he attempted to look down the more densely furred inside.  
  
Now that, Sherlock couldn't take. The earlier touching he had been able to put up with, but with John’s breath just inches from the inside of his ear, it tickled. Snatching his head back he twisted a slight glare in John’s direction.  
  
“Oh! Sorry, sorry.” John muttered, while still looking up at both ears that were turned and had both curved insides pointed directly at him, though now they seemed to be twitching, just barely.  
  
“Its _fine_.” Sherlock attempted to sneer out again, though it came in a slightly more breathy tone than he would have liked. Giving a firm shake of his head to try to rid himself of his earlier thoughts, he placed both hands onto the couch to thrust himself into standing, giving his upper body a twirl he peered down to John.  
  
John was left sitting alone on the couch, and had absolutely no idea what to do with his hands. So he sat them in his lap, and looked up at his flatmate curiously.  
  
“We need to go to the bank.” Sherlock suddenly stated in mid-turn, and was already throwing his coat on.  
  
“Sherlock, what…”  
  
 **SLAM.**  
  
...and he was already gone. Sighing, John rubbed a hand across his face before quickly snatching his coat and trying to catch up to the rapidly mood changing Familiar.

* * *

  
That was how John found himself suddenly being led into a impressive building named Shad Sanderson Bank. Sherlock had already made his way through the revolving door and John had barely enough time to step onto the escalator with him. At first, he had been looking around the insides of the impressive building, but now was noticing how Sherlock had thrust his hands into his coat pockets and was rapidly grazing areas of the building over with flickering blue glances. He looked almost, uncomfortable. Both ears kept firmly out of sight, per the usual, including the tail.  
  
At the top, he had to take two steps for Sherlock’s one, and they were at the receptionist's desk. The girl behind the counter looked up from the screen imbedded within the marble and gave Sherlock a curious look.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes.” Was stated, in a dull tone.  
  
Both of the girl’s eyes widened slightly as she recognized the name, and gave a quick simple nod. Wordlessly she made her way around the desk and motioned for the two of them to follow her. A few hallways out of the way, and they were being shown into an office with a light knock from the girl before she quickly headed back in the direction they had came.  
  
Sherlock didn't give whomever was inside a chance to answer, and simply opened the door and headed inside, leaving a slightly unnerved John in the hallway.  
  
“Sherlock!” Came a man’s pleased sounding voice inside.  
  
With a slight narrowed brow, John stepped inside after Sherlock to find him standing near a shorter gentleman while his hand was being shaken between both of the other man’s own.  
  
“Sebastian.”  
  
“How long has it been? Almost eight years since I've seen you?” Even John could see through the very obvious show the man was putting on, attempting to be friendly.  
  
“Quite.” Sherlock replied in the same dull tone, looking down at his clasped hand and drawing it away slowly as if he were slowly snaking his hand out of a trap. Noticing John out of the corner of his eye he used the same hand to motion towards his general direction. Good enough excuse not to have to continue touching the other man as any.  
  
“This is my friend, John Watson.”  
  
“A _friend?!_ ” The man emphasized the word in a surprised tone, turning to John, sticking out his hand for a more formal shake. John decided to give the weasley looking fellow a rather stronger shake, an extra squeeze in slight intimidation, causing Sebastian’s brow to raise slightly at the firmer touch.  
  
“Colleague.”  
  
“Right?” Sebastian had already turned back to Sherlock, trying to keep himself from rubbing his hand by simply putting it into a pocket. Sherlock did little to reply, from which Sebastian nodded with what one must figure as understanding. “Right.”  
  
Keeping that pleased look about himself, Sebastian moved to sit back down at his desk and prompted for the two of them to sit as well. Sherlock took a second to glare at the offending piece of furniture before plopping down into it with a huff, and John followed after his own chair, a little less plopping on his end.  
  
“Me and Sherlock knew one another at Uni, John, did you know?” Turning his attention towards John. “He had this little _trick_ he used to do on all of us.”  
  
“ _Isn't a trick…_ ” Sherlock muttered darkly, just bare enough for John to overhear.  
  
“I've...seen him do it.” John equally muttered, not liking the phrasing one bit.

“Oh how we used to _hate_ him. You could walk downstairs and he would know exactly who you had been shagging the night before.” Sebastian continued regardless.  
  
Oddly enough, John observed, Sherlock was doing very little to argue this man’s audacity. Confused, he looked over to his flatmate and found that Sherlock seemed to not even be paying attention. The Familiar was currently looking towards the floor, and partially to the side of the room, as if he was having little to do with the conversation. Something about this, along with Sebastian’s better-than-thou attitude, was doing little to keep John’s usual anger in check. Sherlock should have been cutting into this annoying little wanker with his brilliancy by now.  
  
 “But, all that aside! I’m glad you could make it over. We’ve had a break-in.” Sebastian was not missing a beat, hopping up from his seat and motioning for the two of them to follow.  
  
John just barely overheard Sherlock’s small sigh, before the Familiar was already up and following, leaving John to quickly get up from his seat and continue to play catch up as he was doing before.  
  
After a small walk across a slightly crowded trade room, they had stopped before a door, and Sebastian was already motioning to it with a slight bow of his head.  
  
“Sir William’s office, the bank’s former Chairman. Someone decided to break in late last night.”  
  
“And what exactly did they steal?” John mentioned, since Sherlock seemed rather engaged with looking about the room, and promptly not looking at Sebastian himself.  
  
“Not a thing! But, they did leave a sort of message.” During his explanation, Sebastian already had a card slipped out of his pocket, and was sliding it through the card reader that locked the door. Inside, all the had to do was flip a light to show the message that he had been mentioning.  
  
Sherlock had already moved closer to the painting that adorned the main wall of the room, framed inside was a portrait of an older gentleman that John had already figured was Sir William himself. But, on the wall to the left of the portrait was what really had Sherlock’s attention.  
  
It looked like yellow spray paint. The kind that most kids would be seen with in some dark alley way, spreading whatever graffiti came to mind in their particular art form. What might have been a number eight at some point had it’s top forgotten about, and Sherlock was letting his fingers trail over the horizontal line that cut across the top of it. Following the horizontal line was a second one, though this one had been sprayed directly over Sir William’s eyes. Sherlock’s hand moved up and over, trailing down one of the drip lines that fell from the odd blindfold the portrait had been given, after he snatched his phone from his pocket, and was quickly taking pictures, acting as if he was the only person within the room.  
  
Suddenly, shortly after, Sherlock slung his head around towards both John and Sebastian. John was just barely able to catch a twitching ear before it rested among the curls once more.  
  
“How many ways can someone enter this office?”  
  
“Our security cameras monitor every single door in this entire building. If something opens, it would have been recorded. A closet, a bathroom door, anything. Nothing got opened last night.”  
  
“A hole in your security then.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, pocketing his phone he looked to the one window in the room and pulled down a section of the blinds with his fingers, looking out.  
  
Sebastian clicked his own fingers, and pointed to Sherlock.  
  
“Find it, and we’ll pay you for the trouble.” Slipping a hand into a front pocket of his suit, he slipped out a piece of paper, holding it out to Sherlock between two fingers. “Five figures, in fact. This is in advance, of course.”  
  
Sherlock had been, during Sebastian’s offer, opening the blinds fully to find a door behind them to a balcony. Which he had opened and stepped out onto, gracing the view with a studying glance here and there, lightly leaning over the edge to look at the drop below. Upon hearing the last part of Sebastian’s offer though, he turned.  
  
In that miraculous movement where he was suddenly in Sebastian's personal space, he caused both men to blink and slightly startle in surprise. Narrowing his eyes, he softly snarled.  
  
“I don't _need_ incentive, _especially_ not from you.”  
  
With a very similar movement, and pointedly not taking the offered check from Sebastian, Sherlock had removed himself from the room with that flurry of his coat tail behind him.  
  
“I’ll just take that…” John lightly muttered before snatching the offered check from Sebastian’s hand while he was still attempting to get over the startle. He left him in the office as he turned to look for Sherlock, finding the detective randomly moving from desk to desk in the trade room behind him, always looking back to the office he had been in before.  
  
By the time John had caught up, the taller Familiar was standing in front of an opposing office door, looking up at the name tag slid into the card holder in the middle. Taking a quick single glance behind him, Sherlock snatched up the little plastic name sign, and pocket it while turning, hardly giving a glance in John’s direction as he worked.  
  
 John sighed, though by this point he was getting more used to tailgating the Familiar. On catching back up with him at the escalators, he attempted to lean slightly to the side to try to catch Sherlock’s attention from behind him, the stairs at least giving him a slightly higher advantage point for the few seconds they were riding down.  
  
“Why didn't you say anything?”  
  
Sherlock gave a sideways glance back at John over his shoulder as they reached the bottom, and seemed to shorten the stance of his walk so he could silently question him with mere expression.  
  
“I mean, the guy _was_ a wanker. You could have deduced him into shreds, I'm sure of it.”  
  
“ _Obviously_.” Sherlock hissed between his teeth, he had already hailed a taxi with whatever magical charm that John only wish worked for him as well, motioning John inside. “Hardly worth it.”  
  
“I don’t know.” John murmured as he slipped into the taxi, Sherlock following in beside him. “He was a toff.”  
  
A soft cough from Sherlock had John turning to look fully at the detective. With his curled fist pulled slightly against his mouth, John realized that Sherlock was actually covering up a laugh. Had he caused that?  
  
Giving a shake of his head, Sherlock turned away from John to look out the window in his usual manner, giving a breathy huff that fogged the window enough to half obscure the Familiar’s reflection in the surface.  
  
“You have _no_ idea.” Sherlock finally replied back. More to himself, rather than to John's benefit.


	7. Broken Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Only if you accompany me.”

_One random flat-visit, and one possibly not-so-random, dead Chairman Van Coon later…_

* * *

John seriously needed a breather. Not that all the running around, dealing with the police, Sherlock, dead bodies, and what-not wasn't exciting in its own rather morbid fashion. John was still a creature of habit from time to time and not having the slightest bit of normalcy to ground oneself to was slightly nerve wracking. 

And that is why he was currently sitting across from one General Practitioner Sarah Sawyer at a local surgery he had found. The brunette was currently looking at his Curriculum Vitae, holding the paperwork via one hand while the other finger-tapped the desk in front of her in thought.

“Well...it would just be locum work, and you’re a bit over-qualified.” She mentioned, just barely looking over the top of the paperwork to browse over John’s figure. 

John turned on what he figured to be his best aren't-I-the-cutest smile he could muster.

“Could always use the extra money.”

“Might be mundane for you…” She mentioned, though she did give a small smile in return.

“Mundane is good sometimes.”

Exactly what he was looking for, he thought.

* * *

This was exactly not what he thought, now.

Actually, all John could think about was entirely different, given the current scenario.

_I'm going to kill him. If he doesn't get himself killed first._

_All of this because of a blasted flower!_

John glared up at the fire escape ladder that Sherlock had jumped to as if the piece of rust covered metal was the source of all the current issues that John was currently having mentally to this situation. He was not about to admit even to himself that a part of his pride had been wounded when the Familiar had jumped and caught hold of the ladder as if he was just as easily reaching up to grab a tea cup off a high shelf.

_Stupid genetics. Stupid Sherlock._

Turning, John ran back up the alley from where they had been originally. The flat itself belonged to one Soo-Lin. A Familiar that had been working for the National Antiquities Museum. Once John had returned to Baker Street after his meeting with Sarah, he had found himself once again swept up in another one of Sherlock’s mad chases around the city.

Somehow, during the events of finding Van Coon’s body, the origami flower, a man named Lukis’s flat, _another bloody flower_ , back to the bank, Scotland Yard, Chinatown, and so forth, John found his way here. Being left behind as the crazy Familiar had decided he was just going to break in, if no one was around to actually let him into the flat. On a mental side note, John found that wasn't entirely surprising.

It didn't make him any less annoyed though.

It also didn't include the fact that during the last few hours, Sherlock had somehow got him a _blasted ASBO_ in the process! _Poxy fucking graffiti._

“Sherlock!” He yelled through the still-closed door of the woman Familiar’s flat.

John thought that maybe he heard some sort of muffled reply, but nothing that he could actually make out given that Sherlock was locked inside, and he was bloody out here.

“How about, you let me inside this time, so I can **actually hear what you are saying?!** ”

No response. What did he really expect?

Giving a swift annoyed kick at the door, John noticed it had a letter box at the bottom. Leaning down, he opened it with a still gloved hand and leaned in close so that he could both talk, and try to look through the small gap.

“Seriously Sherlock, can you please not keep doing this to me?” Said in a tone that he had attempted to not try and sound as annoyed as he felt. 

“ _I'm not the first._ ” Was his again, muffled answer. At least he was able to hear it this time.

“I'm not the first you have done this to? Well that I can _easily_ believe.” John answered back, sarcastically.

“ _NO. Someone has been here before me!_ ” Sherlock angrily raised his voice back. Too bad that answer was filled with too many words for John to make out clearly, regardless of the raised voice.

“No, what? Sherlock?” John tried calling back.

Some more muttering, that John was clearly not in person enough to have heard through the hole. With an exasperated sigh he flicked the letterbox closed and raised back up to lean his back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest and letting his gloved hands squeeze his own arms in frustration.

“I'm not wasting my breath. **Anytime you would like to include me, just let me know.** ” Another backwards kick sent the heel of his foot into the lower door frame. _Stupid annoying Sherlock._

John waited a moment in quiet, blinking after a moment when he turned his head towards the door and let his ear press against the metal. Somewhere inside, he thought he could hear random thumps and scuffling around. Sherlock was moving on with investigating the entire flat without him.

“ **FINE.** ” He suddenly yelled, more to himself rather than to Sherlock’s benefit. Lifting his hand and wiggling his hands into the air dramatically, he dropped his tone to an very obvious faked version of the Familiar that was currently ignoring him.

“ _Oooo, look at me._ I’m Mr. Sherlock bloody fucking Holmes. I always work alone because no one can compete with my **MASSIVE BLOODY** …”

Suddenly John was falling backwards as the door behind him decided to open without prior acknowledgement, only to be caught by two dark coated arms wrapping around him. Together, John and Sherlock fell backwards, leaving John to land heavily atop of the detective with the _thwumping_ sound of one body hitting the floor hard, and the other to have landed comfortably atop the other. 

Sherlock let out the _tiniest_ squeak of pain, and the arms wrapped around him quickly were removed.

“...intellect.” John finished his sentence flatly, before rolling off the Familiar and moving to stand. After, he turned to offer Sherlock his hand, only to find the that he was still lying across the floor and breathing rather heavily and holding one hand behind his back.

“You okay there?” John asked worriedly, did he hurt Sherlock when they fell?

“ _Tail_ ….” Sherlock croaked a soft reply, giving John a glare.

John raised his eyebrows at the rough sounding tone, scratchier than he remembered the Familiar’s voice being. He leaned over and reached further down to help Sherlock get to his feet. Subdued in realizing he must have squashed the starting point of Sherlock’s tail when they fell.

“Sorry about that….” John tried to brush off the embarrassed feeling in his stomach as quickly as possible. “Your voice is sounding a bit rough.”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock croaked out again, though more strongly this time in what was an obvious attempt to sound better than he actually was. “Come John, we are headed to the Museum.” With that said, the detective practically pulled away from John as quickly as he could, and was already getting a cab to pull over for them.

Furrowing his brows together thoughtfully, John huffed a soft sigh before stepping off the doorway to follow.

* * *

Andy, of course, had been just as much as an imbecile as Sherlock had expected.

The yellow graffiti though? Now that, had at least been slightly more interesting.

Currently, he was making his way down the steps of the National Antiquities Museum lost in whirling thoughts that were flinging today’s events around in a jumbled pattern that only Sherlock would have recognized. If thoughts could be manifested into physical format.

One thing was clear though. He needed to find Soo Lin. There was more data to be had.

“You!” John called out behind him.

Giving a soft growl under his breath, Sherlock swiveled around to tell John to shut up and stop interrupting, only to notice Raz running down the sidewalk. The gangly kid was waving a hand in the air in Sherlock’s direction as he ran up to them, barely keeping from tripping on his own feet.

John on the other hand was walking to meet the kid, with an annoyed scowl plastered across his face.

“ _You_ , are going to show up Tuesday, and tell them the bag was _yours_.” John was attempting to say, but the barely adult Raz simply rolled his eyes and completely bypassed John and made his way up to Sherlock, getting a miffed “Hey!” out of John.

“Sherlock!” Raz grinned, raising a hand and thrusting his thumb towards himself in a pointing gesture while puffing out his chest proudly, completely ignoring John’s presence. “Guess who found something you’d like.”

Sherlock did little to fight back the urge to roll his eyes, but Raz did not seem to be too put off from it. Giving a slight tilt, he afterwards tossed an intrigued look at the younger afterwards.

“Take us there.”

* * *

John let out a slow sigh, thrusting his hands into his pockets. Sherlock was currently too busy sniffing at a spray can they had found along the railway line, causing John to wince in sympathy to Sherlock’s brain cells. Well, the genius had enough of them to go around the city he supposed. Not that the doctor in him didn't want to smack away the can and glower at the unsuspecting Familiar. He had a feeling though, that it would be a bit not good. So instead, he decided to wander and try to put himself to better use.

Pulling a flashlight he was lucky enough to have remembered earlier when they’d been at their flat, he flashed the light around the area. Nothing really special to have been found, until the barest drops of yellow glared into the frame of his light, causing him to pause. Squinting, John slowly followed the line of drops till he came across a brick wall. Not even noticing that he’d left Sherlock behind, slowly stepped closer and flared his light upwards.

Smeared across the brickwork were Chinese symbols, drastically standing out amongst the darker background. Grinning to himself, John reached into his other pocket. Success.

* * *

“Someone doesn't want me to see it…”

After John had finally got back to Sherlock, the idiot had not been answering his phone, he’d hurried the detective back to the spot he’d been in earlier.

“It...it was just here!” John flustered, flashlight again pointed at the now very blank brick wall. 

Sherlock scowled silently, seeming to ponder the situation before suddenly turning to John in that flutter of his coat. Instead of the rant John figured he was about to receive, John suddenly found his head being cradled between large palms, fingertips barely brushing the hair at his temples as Sherlock leaned in close.

“Do you remember it?!”

“Sherlock what in the hell!” John attempted to pull away from the sudden touch. He had been actively avoiding his skin touching anyone for months now, and with the sudden skin to skin contact he felt his breath hitch. Waiting to see if Sherlock would only yank back at the sudden bite of electric current that John was sure was going to emit itself in sudden shock.

Nothing of such happened.

“John look at me.”

Somehow, in their jerky movements, Sherlock had gotten John’s back to the brick wall. The taller Familiar having lowered his head so that he could stare intensely into John’s eyes when John had finally realized he wasn't actually hurting Sherlock. Blinking up at him, somewhere in the back of John’s thoughts a certain little miffed individual was crossing its arms and huffing frustratingly. First physical contact in months and it was being pressed back against the wall like some dame out on a date. 

“ _Stop_. I need you to remember. Do you see it? The symbols on the wall?”

Only thing John was currently noticing was the mixture of hues that fell into place across Sherlock’s irises. He originally thought they were blue, but up close the soft mint greens twisted into the pale ice blue to circle around the black pupils. That miffed individual from before was slowly uncrossing its arms and gave an appreciated hum in thought within John’s inner psyche. 

Frozen Seafoam, that was the color of Sherlock’s eyes up close.

_Lovely..._

“John!” Sherlock announced louder than before.

“Okay! Okay! Yes! I can see it!” Finally John answered, giving another shake of his head between those two palms to try to remove them. Where in the hell had his thoughts gone there?

“How much can you remember?” Sherlock leaned even closer. Their noses barely apart now.

 _Okay, that is enough of_ that.

John squared his shoulders back against the brick and frowned up into that gaze with one of his own. All earlier thoughts forgotten.

“Sherlock. You would be able to see it too if you would let me show you the _pictures_ I took of the wall.”

Sherlock paused, blinking. Eventually, John noticed the Familiar’s eyes darting to the sides where his hands rested against John’s skull. Slowly he lowered them and took a careful step back, seeming almost lost within the moment.

 _No. Embarrassed?_ John’s mind flickered between his indignation.

Suddenly Sherlock’s hand flashed out, holding it open and waiting. The glare was back, and he was looking at John, giving a slight shake to his hand. So much for that. 

“Well, come on then.”

“ _Prat_ …” John softly murmured under his breath, while reaching back into his pocket for his phone.

* * *

John was slowly running on mere fumes by the time they made it back to the Museum. He had no idea what time it was anymore. It’d been dark hours ago it seemed after they had left the Museum the first time. After spending time at the flat with the pictures he’d taken blown up to full array, John’s body was desperately trying to tell him to sleep with every ache and yawn he fought back.

At least the situation was proving to be one that kept most of his lack of sleep in waiting. Standing behind Sherlock he leaned slowly out to look at the person huddled in the barest of light within the room. Soo Lin was similar to Sherlock in that she also appeared to have a set of feline ears atop her head. The main difference being though, that while one right ear had the same almost black hue of her hair, the other left was brilliantly colored in a flash of fire orange. John could almost make out the barest slivers of darker burnt orange stripes before the appendage folded back against her skull.

Soo Lin only gave Sherlock the barest moment of shock, and then distain before looking back down at the teapot cradled between her hands. Slowly the look was enveloped into a sloping regret, eyelashes framing her dark eyes to make them look even darker in the slight light from her work station.

“You already know he is coming for me.”

“That is why we are here.” Sherlock stated, matter of factually. John paused to look at the other Familiar with the sudden softening of tone. Something he had not heard from Sherlock thus far causing the pause.

Before Soo Lin could reply, her light went out. John heard the distinctive electrical click and hiss of everything else in the building having shut down, it seemed surprisingly loud amidst the stonework of the walls and building itself.

Suddenly, John wasn't so tired anymore.

“You're too late. He’s here.” Soo Lin whispered, with a frightened tremor barely held in check.

Sherlock gave a hissed growl, a sound that startled John with the animalistic quality the angered sound made. Twisting, he charged back out of the room and was enveloped into the dark of the building, leaving John and Soo Lin without as much as a look.

“Come on!” John whisper-yelled and grabbed for the female Familiar’s hand, giving her barely enough time to put down her teapot before she was yanked out of the room and down the hallway in what John hoped was the opposite direction that Sherlock had headed.

“Zhi Zhu… _Spider_...” Soo Lin huffed as she did her best to keep up with John, who was still nearly dragging her.

“Quiet!” John grumbled back at her, before finding an out-of-the-way door. Yanking it open at just the right moment when a pistol shot sounded from down the hallway they had just came, making him stop and stare down the area with a worried expression. Shaking his head, John yanked the Familiar lady into the room he’d just opened.

Even more startled, Soo Lin grasped out with both hands and caught herself on a cupboard looking shelved wall, her side turned to John. One emergency light framing her body as she peered down at the floor, both hands knuckled white as she held onto the shelf she’d nearly fallen against.

“You have to listen.” She whispered to John, as he was closing the door behind them and holding it fast with a gloved hand wrapped around the doorknob. 

John looked back to her, noticing as he turned to look at her sideway figure that cut from her dress was a slot towards her lower back. This modification letting room for her small tufted tail that was currently flickering back and forth frighteningly in switches of the same black and orange she had atop her head. Nothing like Sherlock’s elongated tail, Soo Lin’s was short and bob cut.

“Listen. The Black Lotus. An Ancient Chinese crime syndicate. They are the ones behind this.”

 _Bloody flowers_. John remembered. 

“And how do you know that?” John glowered at the girl, and instinctively regretted it when she gave a soft breathy wail and slumped to the floor.

John started to move forwards to attempt to help her, but when she brought her dark eyes framed by her long hair back up to his, ears folded back, he paused.

“I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds’ worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. I barely managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England.”

Everything was starting to slowly make sense to John. Even though he was no way near as brilliant as Sherlock, it was clear enough to him with only a few sentences exactly why this Familiar had distanced herself, and then gone missing completely.

A second gunshot rang out behind the closed door, and John was already twisting the knob of the handle to yank it back open without having even thought about it. Sherlock was out there, and he was alone.

“My _brother_.” Soo Lin whispered behind him.

“Stay...stay here. I’ll be back. I promise.” John finally jerked away from the room and away from her, never even hearing the door close as he ran into the hallway looking for his friend. Had she tried to call him back? John didn't know. 

_Your friend_. Something inside John mentioned hopefully as he turned down another dark open room. 

“Sherlock!” 

_Yes. My **friend**_. He mentally responded back, harsh and confident.

“ **SHERLOCK!** ” He tried again, louder this time. 

A third echoing gunshot, and quiet. John skid to a stop.

The sound had come from behind him, that was easy enough to tell. Where he had _came from_.

 _I promised_. The thought ripped across his mind almost as fast as John had turned to make his way back to the room that he had left Soo Lin inside. _I fucking promised!_

Slamming the door back open, John was left with the sight he already knew that was coming. It didn't keep him from letting out a groan of despair and leaning his body weight against the frame of the door. Head bowed as she squinted his eyes shut at the scene, willing it to be anything different than what it was.

Soo Lin’s body could barely be seen on top of a table placed more towards the back of the room, as if she had been delicately placed. Hair having fallen across her face that was now turned towards the door John stood in, hiding her last expression as well as her eyes. Both furry tipped ears holding way too still. One arm was left to hang off the side, the palm slightly left open to allow the placement of another dark ebony flower, framed amongst too-still fingertips in a death’s caress. A sliver of blood was already making its way down her pale arm towards the flower in a careful slow path.

Last thing John felt, was the warming presence of Sherlock stepping in behind him. John didn't even question how he knew it was the Familiar without looking, even as he felt long fingers being gently draped onto his shoulder. It did not even occur to him at the moment, just how much the gesture was completely out of Sherlock’s usual character.

* * *

They had went to Scotland Yard of course, but John was too lost in his own thoughts to give any other brain processes access to his current location. It didn't happen to be the yard anymore, but St. Bartholomew's Hospital where Sherlock was taking a look at the bodies in the morgue. John had had enough of bodies for this evening, so instead, he was sitting by himself in a chair he’d found out in the hallway.

John was too mind-set on the image of Soo Lin’s body lying across the table from earlier. Too many people end up dying around him, and he wondered if maybe he was better off living away his days in some random solo home somewhere outside the city. Leaning forwards from his chair he left his elbows prop his face up as he gave the floor a long drawn out pondering look. Maybe that would have been for the best.

“Your humming.” Sherlock’s voice interrupted the depressing line of thought.

“Hm?” Sitting up quickly, John stared up the length of coat up towards Sherlock’s questioning gaze. What was it he had been thinking about before?

“Humming. What is it?” The Familiar gave a slight incline of his head as he looked to John from behind a few random curls that had fallen forwards from the movement.

“Oh. Um…” John paused, trying to think. “I have no clue.”

“Hm.” Rising back to his usual arrogant stature he motioned towards the hallway with a flippant twist of his hand.. “Home?”

“Sure.” John answered back casually, pulling himself up from the chair just in time to follow behind the coat tail of Sherlock as they made their way towards the outside of the building. Home sounded good right about now, and once again, the thought did not cross his mind how the flat had so quickly been thought of as such only after a single night of sleeping there.

Little things like that didn't really seem to matter.

* * *

Back at 221B, the two of them were in the living room. John had turned to nursing a cup of tea that he had very quickly moved to make as soon as they had returned. Sherlock’s cup, also made by John, lay to the side of his laptop, which Sherlock had quickly snatched up without much care to start clicking wildly on. John hadn't seen him take as much as a sip yet.

In the middle of his clicking-spree across the keyboard at some point Sherlock had interrogated John on what had happened after he’d fled before to go after the gunman. In a few soft sentences John went through the scenario as quickly as he could to keep himself from drawing himself too closely to the mental scene from before.

“Not just a criminal organization; it’s a cult. Her brother was corrupted by one of its leaders.” Sherlock had said.

“Hm…” John merely replied, dipping his head forwards towards his cup held in two hands, peering down into the dark liquid as if it was going to tell him all the answers instead.

John didn't see Sherlock giving him one of those curious looks from before. After a few silent minutes, he narrowed his gaze at his flatmate and turned his attention back to the laptop. Minimizing screens and pulling new ones up as a new idea flickered into life across his already brilliant mind.

Eventually, Sherlock closed the laptop after he had found what he was looking for. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but on looking up he found that John was barely holding onto the cup of tea he had made earlier. The cup was balanced on both knees between his hands, while John was leaning forwards and had closed his eyes. Looking down, Sherlock finally noticed the tea that John had made him earlier, still sitting within easy reaching distance, and had long gone cold. Maybe it had been hours ago, Sherlock didn't know.

Ignoring the cold tea, Sherlock stepped up from the couch and made his way towards the window, casually reaching out and down to grab the case of his violin that had been sat atop a random box. Opening it, he pulled out the musical instrument, set the case back down, and grabbed the bow that was also inside. The other free arm was moving the violin in place under his chin. It was all a very practiced motion that he easily did without giving it much thought.

Giving another mental look over the notes he had found from earlier, now mentally stashed away with his other musical scores, Sherlock let his body straighten, closed his eyes, and carefully drew the bow across the strings to begin to play.

The music didn't draw John from his half-slumber at first, but Sherlock knew it would only take a few minutes of the tone to slowly bring John around, and eventually, it did.

John gave a soft sigh as the music enveloped his senses, even when he was half-asleep. Giving a few bleary blinks he looked up to find his new flatmate in a stance he felt was something out of a movie.

Sherlock was softly drawing out the tones across his violin, his body having begun to sway at some point, along with his tail. The black furred appendage was carefully swishing back and forth in tune with the melody that Sherlock was doing his best to draw out from memory.

“I know that one.” John whispered to himself, without realizing.

“Of course.” Sherlock casually mentioned, pausing his bow while it lay across the violin. Pausing the music and letting his head turn slightly to regard John with blue-green gaze that seemed far softer than John remembered it having been at any other point of the day, or the one before.

“S-sorry...please. Continue.” John found himself stammering, leaning forwards to put his tea on the table and hoping the movement would hide the blush that he felt from the warmth in his face when he’d been heard.

“Only if you accompany me.”

“...What?” John paused, a deer caught in sea-green headlights once again as he stared up at Sherlock with wide eyes. “I don't...not really…”

“Yes you do. You know the words. You were humming it earlier.”

“Was I?” John mentioned, trying to remember whenever it was that Sherlock had over-heard him.

_“Your humming.”_

_“What is it?”_

_Oh. The Hospital._

“Sorry...I don’t normally…I am not really...” John murmured mostly to himself only to pause when he realized that Sherlock was still looking at him expectantly. Both his ears had pulled about and were curved in his direction even from the sideways look he was getting. John swallowed nervously. “I don’t sing very well.” He finally got out.

“How about I be the judge of that. Shall we?” Sherlock was already turning back to the window, facing away from John, and was silently standing with his bow still in position. Waiting, John realized.

“....Okay.” John said quietly. What in hell was he thinking?

Slowly, the bow moved, and the tone was drawn out once again into the air around them. Yes, John knew this one. Embarrassingly he knew it, but it was a little too late to say no now. Taking a breath, John closed his eyes, and tried to pretend that he did not have an audience. It was just like any other time that he sang to himself, alone, where no one else could hear him.

_“I've heard there was a secret chord, that David played and it pleased the Lord…”_

John wasn't a great singer, he knew this. He’d been told many times by several girlfriends in the past that he’d ending up trusting enough to have not thought about it at the time. It’d kept him from singing in front of anyone else for many years. For some reason, now he was carefully letting the lower tones of his voice fold over the words he could hear in his head that followed along with Sherlock’s music.

 _“But you don't really care for music, do you?”_ Well. His girlfriends hadn’t.

Secretly, and without John’s knowledge, or even to Sherlock’s own, Sherlock smiled.

_“It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth. The minor fall, the major lift. The baffled king composing hallelujah…”_

_There it is._ Sherlock thought to himself, it wasnt quite the music that Sherlock appreciated, but somehow that deeper male tone raised at just the right points, and lowered again, perfect with his notes. Sherlock loved it when he knew he was right.

 _“Hallelujah, hallelujah…”_ John continued, and so did Sherlock.

_“Your faith was strong but you needed proof. You saw her bathing on the roof. Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you.”_

John finally opened his eyes, looking up to his partner, the words having come more easily the longer the music went on. He was left watching Sherlock softly swaying just as he had before, but now with the lights outside coming from outside, it enveloped Sherlock in a soft halo of white that was only interrupted with a swish of his tail.

_“She tied you to a kitchen chair. She broke your throne, she cut your hair. And from your lips she drew the hallelujah. Hallelujah, hallelujah…”_

Together, they continued without giving any care to anything else other than the song. All nervousness gone, John gave into his normally hidden pleasure of the music, and simply let it take everything else away. Just leaving the two of them.

_“Maybe I've been here before. I know this room, I've walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you…”_

Sherlock turned while continuing to play, having opened his eyes and was now watching John. The two of them met each other with similar gazes, during that earlier line of the song.

Something that was both verbally, and nonverbally said. John gave Sherlock a smile between the words.

From there they continued till the song ended, with John giving a last few soft _“Hallelujah”_ ’s to end it. Sherlock slowly pulled his bow away and let it droop at his side as he continued to regard John, and the two of them ended up just watching the other as the minutes slipped by, as if the music hadn't already faded from the room.

“Um. Thanks.” John cut through their silence, reaching up with a free gloved hand to scrub his fingers at the base of his neck. “I guess I needed that.”

Sherlock gave him a nod, the smile from earlier was gone, but he wasn't giving John the cold stare that he normally gave to others. Just quiet, within their home. Even his tail had stopped its movement and was slightly curled around his right leg.

“I guess I better get at least a few hours sleep before…” That was when John finally noticed that while they’d been otherwise occupied, the light that had enveloped Sherlock earlier was looking warmer, and more golden. “...before the sun comes up.”

Sherlock couldn't help giving John one of his all-knowing smirks.

“Prat.” John chuckled. 

“I told you I kept odd-hours when it comes to sleep.”

“Well. I guess I’ll just doze here for a little longer.” John leaned back into his chair with a sigh.

Normally, Sherlock, would have already been pressuring for the two of them to get up and start the day, specially with a case still left unfinished, but with a flick of his tail he turned back to the window. Giving the pane a thoughtful look he let the bow he still held softly tap against his leg.

“I suppose that is adequate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Sherlock plays and John sings in this chapter is: Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah"
> 
> Listen to it here. It sets the mood: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xR0DKOGco_o
> 
> And to those of you who are still with me, thank you. It might take me forever to get a chapter up, but this story will not be canceled by any means.
> 
> Coming soon!: Cover art! Yay!  
> Update: 05/13/2015: Cover art is now finished! http://i.imgur.com/KSvE38v.jpg  
> Check it out at the imgur or link, or the first chapter! 
> 
> See you all next time!


	8. An enlightening experience.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The intuitive mind is a sacred gift. We have created a society that honours the servant and has forgotten the gift. - Albert Einstein
> 
> “You thought that me being a Familiar would have made me uncomfortable in your presence because you were not entirely human? _Boring._ ”

John awoke what felt like minutes later to the vibration of his phone going off in his pocket. Nearly jumping out of his seat he found Sherlock having found his way back to the couch, clicking through his own phone. The Familiar raised his gaze just slightly to peer at John’s erratic movement before he looked back down, the white glow from the cellphone making his eyes flicker oddly.

 

Letting out a huff of slightly annoyed-at-himself breath, John eventually did pull his cellphone out to flick it open with only a small sleep deprived struggle. One new text appeared, and with a click of a key it opened.

 

_Hi John! Its Sarah. I thought I might check to see if you are busy tonight?_

 

Sarah Sawyer, General Practitioner. John’s memory was slowly catching up to him after having been forcibly thrown from the sleep state it so desperately wanted at this point. The brunette he’d gone to see about the clinic job. Slowly he typed out a message through the number keypad, which ended up with him receiving another look from Sherlock that was easily read as a silent ‘ _Really?_ ’

 

_Hi Sarah. Did you need me to cover a late shift? - JW_

 

As he flipped off his roommate in a equally silent reply, his phone vibrated again.

 

_No silly, I wanted to know what *you* were doing tonight. I don’t have any plans, myself._

 

Well _well_ ….that was an entirely different story. That little normally silent figure in the back of John’s mind took a moment to brush dust lightly off his chest with a smirk before mentally mentioning “ _Still got it._ ” with a gush of pride.

 

Leaning forwards in his seat, he again began clicking out a reply. Causing Sherlock to roll his eyes to the point where John thought they may get stuck somewhere in the back of his skull. Or lost in that mind palace he mentioned sometime before. Whatever that was.

 

_I’m happy to make plans, what did you have in mind? - JW_

 

John didn't take his eyes back off his phone after he sent his reply, and he was far from disappointed with the speedy reply he got back, causing him to grin.

 

_Surprise me. ;)_

 

John squinted at the emoticon. Ah, a winky face, he was _so_ in.

 

“Someone has asked you out on a date.”

 

Blinking, John looked up from his phone to notice that Sherlock had at some point put his own away, and was regarding John with one feline ear flipped down. Giving the detective both a curious expression, and an annoyed one at the same time. Something John figured came naturally to the Familiar.

 

“Dare it be me that attempts to prove you wrong. But yes, I have a date, tonight actually.” John grinned over at his flatmate in what he figured was his own show-off moment.

 

“Any plans of where the two of you might go?” Sherlock asked, casually. Keeping his eyes on John, and slowly letting both his ears slide back into their normal comfortable positions. Acting as if all the world was fine with the current mundane round of conversation.

 

It really should have been John’s first hint. Instead, John totally missed it, to Sherlock’s inner delight.

 

“No clue, really. Hmm….” John peered down to the floor in thought as he clicked his phone closed, and idly tapped the plastic with a leather coated finger.

 

Sherlock loved when everything went according to plan. Reaching for a sheet of paper to his side he slowly leaned forwards and slipped it down where John would see it being handed to him. Slowly John grabbed the piece of paper with his free hand and lifted it further so he could see it properly.

 

“The circus?” John gave Sherlock a quirked eyebrow over the sheet of paper.

 

“Why not?” Sherlock gave John the most interesting grin he could come up with, giving a slight wave to his hand as to indicate the aloofness he was portraying with the conversation. “Or you could just take her to the cinema, out to dinner, all that rubbish. Dull _and_ cliche’.”

 

“And you would know this, how…?” John narrowed his eyes slightly with a lower toned annoyed outlook.

 

“Obvious. Research.” Sherlock let his grin fall, and gave John his usual _why-do-you-have-to-be-tedious_ expression. It's what he would be expecting, afterall. “For ‘The Work’.”

 

Well. Sherlock did have a point....

 

* * *

 

 

“This was **_not_** in the game plan tonight, Sherlock.” John growled openly.

 

“But John,” Sherlock was currently leaning slightly over him, lowering his voice only barely because, thankfully, Sarah had already wandered off to their seats. But, John had grabbed Sherlock by the arm and yanked him to the back of the room to have a _word_. “Yellow Dragon Circus, here for only one night, _try_ and tell me how this does not fit. _And_ , you get this miserable date thing over with at same time. This is brilliant. Two birds, one stone, they call it?”

 

“This is anything **but** brilliant, Sherlock!” John hissed now, giving his flatmate’s arm a small shake. “How am I supposed to have a proper date with you hanging around?!”

 

“This isn’t a _proper_ date?” Sherlock asked, almost seeming sincere with wide eyes.

 

“Well it isn’t **NOW**!” John raised his voice slightly too loud, causing the back members of the small audience to turn and hiss out whispered “ _Shhhh’s!_ ” in their direction. Normally, John would have instantly apologized, but with the lack of sleep and his previous ideas of how the date would end being completely ruined now, he glared back at the irritated audience and silently dared anyone say anything else.

 

“Well tell me what a proper date is, John Watson, since you're so knowledgeable in this area.” Sherlock yanked his arm back and crossed it over his chest along with his other. Going into a full blown pout expression that made him look far younger than even John thought Sherlock would like to admit.

 

John raised a hand and slowly ran it back through his hair with a low groan of frustration. Taking a slow, deep breath, he closed his eyes and took a few seconds to try to compose himself. Slowly breathe in, slowly breathe out, repeat.

 

“Okay, just...lets just... **stop**. We’re going to watch this show and we are going to pretend like you didn't just mess this entire bloody night up for me, alright? Let’s go sit down, and you can explain to me later exactly why this particular place was so blasted important.”

 

“Fine, and please, language John. We are in public.” Sherlock nodded with a small wave of his hand at the others in the room before sweeping past John to move towards Sarah and their seats they had purchased. “I am hoping though, that this show will speak for itself.”

 

“ _I will not murder my new flatmate. I will not murder my new flatmate…_ ” John softly muttered under his breath as he followed Sherlock, sitting down into his seat next to Sarah to give her the biggest smile he possibly could put on despite the situation, just as the lights began to dim.

 

“ _Show time._ ” Sherlock softly mentioned beside the two of them.

 

* * *

 

 

_I’m going to murder my new flatmate._

 

After the absolute fiasco of a circus, whereas they had been attacked after Sherlock had found that they were indeed part of this gang (“Not a gang, John!”) he’d been researching into. A horribly awkward trip to Lestrade’s office that involved dragging poor Sarah along with him as another witness, and they had finally got back to their flat where hopefully John was going to try to pull the mere shreds of tonight’s evening with Sarah back together again regardless of Sherlock’s constant rambling. Finally the detective had sod off, and he was actually alone with Sarah with what felt like the first real time of the night.

 

And then he had been kidnapped, he thought. His head hurt like hell, and from what he could tell in the darkness that surrounded him, he was currently tied down to a chair of some sorts. The place smelled like a dirty alleyway. He could barely remember being hit over the head when he had went to answer the door shortly after Sherlock left.

 

_I'm **definitely** going to murder my new flatmate. _

 

“Sherlock Holmes, I would say it is quite the pleasure to meet you, but given the current circumstances…”

 

A flash of sudden light and heat caught John by surprise, causing his already pounding head to throb further as he winced and did his best to force vision through the white that wanted to fill his head. After a moment he noticed a small Chinese woman ( _She’d been at the show!_ John’s brain screamed) standing besides a garbage can that was now alight with flame. Twisting his head around to try to see more of the area he caught sight of Sarah, also tied down into a chair with an added gag over her mouth. She was desperately looking at John with wide tear-rimmed eyes as she pulled at the rope binding her down with little success. Other barrels along the long alleyway slowly caught fire one by one in succession in dramatic display.

 

Even in his shock, John’s brain did catch up to the Chinese woman’s words though.

 

“I’m not Sherlock Holmes.” John replied as he turned his full attention back to the woman standing near the fire as if the heat did little to bother her. He had to try to get this situation under control, for Sarah’s sake.

 

Slowly the woman carefully stepped closer to him, casually lowering her hand to slide down the side of his jacket where her hand slipped into his pocket, grabbing his wallet with a sudden violent snatch and bringing it up to her face so she could open it, flipping through a few cards before daintily pulling one free.

 

“Hm. Debit Card. For a one named S. Holmes.” Rolling her eyes, she tossed the card over her shoulder. “One cheque for five thousand pounds made out in the name of Mr Sherlock Holmes.” She paused to give John an over exaggerated look of being impressed before she turned her attention back to his wallet, flinging the cheque over her shoulder as well. “Tickets. Collected by you, again in the name of Holmes.” With a final flick, the wallet sailed behind her and she leaned down close enough where John could see the glint of the firelight in her eyes.

 

“Forgive me for not believing you. But even that evidence is trivial at best.”

 

“W-what do you mean?” John couldn't help but stammer, slightly.

 

The woman gave him a sudden fiery filled glare before John found himself with a pistol being drawn near his temple. Where the hell had she drawn that from?!

 

“According to my more _familiar_ associates, in their words, you _reek_.”

 

John felt himself go cold. He didn't dare look in Sarah’s direction.

 

“You smell so strongly of magic up close, my pets easily found out your persuasion just by tying you down to this chair. Only someone with your ability could have pulled off the reputation you have already acquired through this city’s tedious media.”

 

“You have it all wrong…” John whispered, nervously

 

“Do I?” The woman then leaned up, pointing the small gun directly into John’s face.

 

“Let’s test that theory.”

 

* * *

 

 

Back in 221B, Sherlock was currently stabbing a map of London onto their flat’s wall with the small knife he had used earlier to stab his mail down onto the mantle. Using one hand to help hold half the paper up, he used the other to slide fingertips across different streets, not realizing in the small amount of time he had begun to growl under his breath in a very not-human like way.

 

Finally, he found it. He violently tapped the area of the map he wanted, piercing the paper with a sharp nail. Twisting his head around he then surveyed the empty flat.

 

“ _John_.”

 

With that single name muttered, he fled the flat once more. Leaving the map to slowly slide down the wall with the knife softly screeching along the paper in a raspy wail before it finally fell to the floor.

  

* * *

 

 

John still cringed, expecting to be long gone from this plane of existence after the woman had pointed the gun at him. Instead, he was left squinting one eye open and noticing her casually looking down at the gun before shrugging her shoulders. Lowering a hand to her pocket, she pulled out a small clip that she inserted into the butt of the gun with a metallic click that seemed to echo quietly into the stone around them.

 

“Now that I have your attention…” Slowly she looked up from her gun, giving John a small smile. “I would _appreciate_ you telling me where the treasure is. It is getting late, after-all.”

 

“What treasure? I have no bloody idea what you're talking about! And I am still not Sherlock bloody Holmes!” John was beginning to lose patience as he became more desperate, twisting against his bonds as best he could.

 

The Chinese woman sighed dramatically, throwing one of her arms out wide to her side.

 

“I guess we are going to need someone from the audience!”

 

Two men suddenly emerged from the darkness, heading towards Sarah to pick up her chair, quickly causing the woman to scream against the gag, though it of course was heavily muffled to prevent her from causing due alarm.

 

“Wait, **NO!** ” John cried out, twisting in his seat to see what was happening.

 

The two men brought Sarah’s chair around to the front, sitting it nearer to the woman as she slowly turned her gun onto Sarah. Placing it under her chin and forcing her to sit more properly even as she struggled. Using her free hand the woman gently patted one of the men’s shoulders, whom turned to his leader and flicked out a small forked tongue at her before he followed his companion back into the dark.

 

“Mr. Sherlock’s poor _pretty_ companion….” The gun was raised once more to be placed in the middle of Sarah’s forehead, the hand holding it slowly twisting the weapon back and forth slowly to leave a small circled indention into Sarah’s skin. Sarah was left finally sitting completely still and silent as she looked up at her would-be killer for the small moment before pleadingly looking over to John seconds later.

 

“One more time I will ask you, Mr. Holmes. Where is the hairpin?”

 

“ **I AM NOT SHERLOCK HOLMES.** ” John openly snarled now, the sides of his vision slowly turning white around the edges as he struggled in his seat, if only he could just get free...

 

“I would believe him, if I were you.” Sang a low baritone amongst the shadowed stone.

 

Instantly the pistol was nearly thrown to the side as the woman darted her entire body around to aim, and fire at both the sound and the shadowed figure directly straight at the end of the alleyway. Sherlock threw his body to the side of the wall to dodge and quickly hid himself among the shadows.

 

One of the woman’s male counterparts darted out from the darkened area near John and ran headlong down the alleyway to where Sherlock had been moments before, only to be left hissing openly with bared fang-like teeth as he attempted to look for the other Familiar.

 

The woman shouted something in Chinese to the man whom had attempted to catch Sherlock, only to cause him to lose his attention right at the exact moment that Sherlock came barreling out from the side wall to smash a metal pipe to the side of his head before darting back into the dark. The man fell with hardly a small sound of pain, it had been that quick.

 

The woman let out a small groan of frustration as she pointed the gun in the direction that Sherlock had disappeared again, but seemed to be unsure on actually firing. Slowly she began walking in small steps down towards where Sherlock had hidden himself.

 

“You are at least slightly smarter than you look. The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four metres. If you miss, and you _will_ , the bullet will ricochet. Could hit _anyone_. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit _you…_ Hopefully _”_ Sherlock mentioned casually from somewhere in the dark.

 

“Or it might even hit your friends. _Hopefully_ , you interfering Stray.” She hatefully spat back as she slowly made her way down the tunnel, turning this way and that to try and grab even the smallest glance of him. “Is that a risk you're willing to take?”

 

Her question was met with silence, which only seemed to frustrate her more as she began muttering curses in chinese. Turning to check on Sarah, John was able to notice that she had got her hands free, the shadowed figure of Sherlock just behind the chair gave John a quick glance over, before switching over behind him to help get John free as well. John gave his flatmate a quick nod as he attempted to shift his bound hands against the bonds to help Sherlock remove them.

 

Instead, Sherlock was savagely interrupted by the second figure from before. The man jumped from the shadows with a unrestrained cry as he attempted to tackle Sherlock.

 

It was too bad for him, that Sherlock had just been able to get one of John’s hands almost free.

 

John groaned as he yanked against the rope, feeling the still semi-taunt material scrape across the skin of his wrist, where it ended up yanking against the edge of his glove. John did not have the time to think about exactly how perfect that detail had ended up being, for when he did have that last bit of strength he was more interested in saving Sherlock from whatever fate the other man had in store for him.

 

His hand ripped free of both the restraint, and the glove. John instantly reached out and snatched his hand onto the other man’s bare neck just as he had gotten Sherlock to the floor, and gripped, hard.

 

If hell had not been brought loose before, it surely raised its riotous head now.

 

The man let out an animalistic shriek as white gold laced across the visible parts of his body in a murderous lightshow array that left the white of his eyes completely enveloping what pupil he might have had. The muscles of his body betraying him completely as they locked up, then shuddered in violent agony as the electricity ripped its way down into his lithe frame. John only clenched his fingers harder into the flesh of the man’s neck as he ripped the man off of Sherlock, tossing him easily a few feet away to skid into the stone wall with slack thump. From there, the only sound the man made was the slightly audible sound of random twitches, and soft hissing.

 

The smoke-like copper smell was almost unmistakable.

 

He’d totally forgotten in his sudden fury that Sherlock had been in contact with the man at the time.

 

Sarah on the other hand, had backed herself as close to the opposite wall once he’d been let free, one hand over her mouth as she stared shockingly at John, and she was not the only one.

 

The woman from before was left speechless, standing near the end of the hallway. Gun forgotten as she barely clasped it in her nearly limp hand, having watched the last Familiar in her employ, and near to best assassin, taken out with only one hand.

 

She felt it was time to leave. Now, to be precise.

 

John lay slumped halfway over his chair, breathing heavily as he stared at the body he had attacked. It was only Sherlock’s hand suddenly thumping down onto his shoulder from which the detective used to hoist himself up and off the floor did John even remember that Sherlock had been mere inches from death, because of him.

 

As fate would have it though, Sherlock appeared just fine. Giving John one of those real actual smiles before John felt the last of the rope being tugged off of both him and the chair.

 

“Easy, John.” Sherlock mentioned softly before pulling himself to standing and making his way over to Sarah, tugging his coat around him more strictly before raising both hands and softly patting the air in front of him in what he hoped appeared like a soothing gesture. “It's alright now, you are both safe.”

 

Instead, Sarah simply slowly slid down the wall, hand still covering her mouth, till she was haphazardly sprawled in a sitting position. Only then did she begin to wail and sob against her own attempt to stay quiet.

 

Feeling guilty, John heaved himself to standing, looking over to where Sherlock was now standing next to Sarah in the dark. Barely able to tell that the taller Familiar was leaning over and attempting to softly pet her shoulder. Noticing John’s look, Sherlock turned his head from the sobbing woman to regard John for a mere second before looking down the now empty stone alleyway, where both ears slowly perked from dark curls in a wistful expression, the woman was long gone.

 

Just as John was able to hear the approaching sirens, he slowly made his way over to the man whom he had attacked earlier, the body having finally gone still. Leaning down, he used his still gloved hand to turn the body over where he could get a better look.

 

The resemblance was rather uncanny, and the two ears atop the younger man’s head lead John to the obvious conclusion. It didn't take another Sherlock to figure out the one black ear, along with its partner in fiery orange, easily named the man as Soo Lin’s brother. Across the skin that John could see, he had left laced marks of soot black with cracked red into the flesh. The eyes of the body still held the rolled-back white from before.

 

John closed his eyes and took a second to hope that somewhere, he hoped that Soo Lin could forgive him for this second mistake. After a moment, he opened them so that he could in turn close her brother’s eyes. What might have been an act of attempting to put the Familiar’s soul to sleep, was more done in the fact that John could barely stand the accusing dead glare the body was giving him.

 

* * *

 

 

John stood behind Sherlock as his flatmate was currently being lectured rather harshly by a very annoyed looking Lestrade. The older Familiar was just barely able to keep from growling himself at the situation that felt like he’d been thrown into.

 

“Sherlock, I have two men dead, this is far more serious than you made it out to be.”

 

“And as I have been attempting to tell you, Lestrade, this was self defense. You would have had three bodies on your hand rather than just the two, and those three bodies would be far more innocent than the two you ended up with.” Replied Sherlock with a verbal sneer in his voice.

 

“Oh, two of them maybe, but _you_?! Bloody unlikely!”Lestrade exclaimed, loudly.

 

John, could barely stand to watch the confrontation. Instead, he was glancing over to the side where Sarah had been taken by the other officers on the scene. She was leaning against a patrol car, orange shock blanket wrapped around her, appearing to be quietly answering questions being given to her by one of Lestrade’s men. John took mental note that he was really going to have to try explaining the situation better to her later, if she even let him. He did actually need that clinic job, regardless of the possible relationship that he knew he was no way in hell getting now.

 

“ **WHAT?!** ” Lestrade suddenly yelled louder, causing John to quickly look back forwards to find that Lestrade and Sherlock’s conversation had been cut short by another man, dressed sharply in black, whom had leaned closer to Lestrade to quietly speak into his ear to avoid being overheard.

 

“You have got to be kidding me…” Lestrade muttered shortly after, letting out a deep sigh afterwards, and turning back to look at Sherlock and John.

 

“Apparently…you are free to go.”

 

“...What?” John blinked, tilting his body slightly from behind Sherlock to give the Inspector a surprised expression.

 

“Exactly what I said. Just go. Get out of here.” Lestrade swished a hand in front of him to wave Sherlock and John off. “I got work to do, or not do, ugh....” Without any other information, the silver-haired Familiar turned and stalked off with black suited man, cursing to himself.

 

Just as suddenly, John felt Sherlock shift where he could step behind him. Sherlock’s hand being moved to place itself along the small of John’s back with light pressure as he tilted his head towards the street in indication of the fancy black car parked a little aways from the main group of officer vehicles. The windows tinted so black, one was unable to tell if there were any other individuals actually in the car itself.

 

“Let’s go home, John.” Sherlock softly mentioned, with another soft pressure given to John’s back.”There is nothing else we need to be doing here.”

 

“Yeah…” John softly replied back, still watching the dark sleek car curiously.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was strangely quiet through the cab ride home he had magically got for the two of them in a matter of minutes, and even took the time to actually pay the cabby before leaving the vehicle with John. Though he was just as quickly the first one inside and upstairs, leaving John to follow the longer legged Familiar up the stairs to their flat.

 

Inside, John found Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, looking towards their window where another tall dressed fellow that John recognized was standing, leaning slightly on what John figured by now was his signature umbrella.

 

“Mycroft, the answer is **no**.”Sherlock heatedly declared, full-on glaring.

 

“And where, pray tell, did you conclude that you had any sort of say-so in this situation, Sherlock? I had hoped you were smarter than that.” Was replied back in a cool manner from Mycroft, who then turned his attention to where John was standing near the doorway.

 

Just as suddenly as Mycroft’s attention had moved, so had Sherlock. Quickly shifting to stand in front of the smaller man he let out a low growl under his breath in Mycroft’s direction, ears still flat and out of sight against his skull.

 

“ **No.** ” Sherlock stated again as if his word were complete law.

 

John was slightly irked that anyone felt like he was the one needing to be protected, _hell_ , he had just killed a man not even a few hours ago with his bare hand. But, it was that thought that coursed through his thoughts like a oily wave of guilt, and he placed his now re-covered leather-bound hand on Sherlock’s arm. Gently pushing him to the side that ended up with him receiving a narrowed side-eyed glance from the detective. Slowly John stepped forwards and gave the man named Mycroft his best stern, army stoic expression.

 

The flat remained silent as the two older men regarded one another, ignoring Sherlock’s annoyed glances for the time being, until Mycroft slowly cracked a small smile, letting his head drop in an almost nodding gesture before looking over to Sherlock.

 

“I don't believe I will be taking away your friend, little brother. At least, not tonight..”

 

“Wait a minute… _brother?!_ ” John held in a small gasp between the shocked tone, looking between the other two men in the room as if he were just noticing the small features that would label them as such. Sherlock let out a soft despairing sigh.

 

“As the world likes to remind me on a constant basis…” He mentioned towards John’s direction.

 

“And what do you mean take me away?” John pointedly re-mentioned as he looked back to Mycroft.

 

Mycroft gave John an almost curious look, slight tilt given to his head as he regarded his brother’s new associate with the usual cool gaze that he portrayed to the common folk.

 

“You killed a man tonight, John Watson. In such a means that would have normally caught the attention of every even slight official within this country. You are labeled as a four currently, which would have thrown your name to the top of the list of individuals that would need to be re-evaluated.”

 

John felt his blood go cold.

 

“But...as it may. You did do so in the act of both what would be seen as self defense, and might I add in the defense of my only brother. This, has not gone without proper speculation.”

 

Mycroft paused to take a few steps closer towards John, raising his upper hand as if in a friendly gesture with palm placed upwards.

 

“So for right now, please accept my gratitude in such that you should not be bothered further by tonight’s events. I will have the situation cleaned up by the proper channels.”

 

“If tonight's events had anything to prove is that those types of individuals should have never been let into this country to begin with. Now, who’s department would have been covering that, Mycroft?” Sherlock suddenly interrupted.

 

Both John and Mycroft turned to see a very disgruntled Sherlock watching the both of them carefully, throwing a little more of a hated look towards Mycroft personally. Letting out another one of those well worn sighs, Mycroft turned to face his brother more-so than John.

 

“Even we can only handle so much that goes on, and besides, you did find the treasure did you not? I doubt that Van Coon’s P.A. would mind handing it over once she realizes how much of a crucial part of history it happens to be.”

 

“Or, how much it _happens_ to be worth I suppose.” Sherlock replied back, mockingly.

 

“Trivial, I assure you.” Turning away from Sherlock, Mycroft leaned slightly closer to John whom had been watching the two of them silently.

 

“I would also suggest, that you do try to be less noticeable in the future, John, if you are going to be following around my brother. There is only so much even I can do to keep your freedom. Just a word of advice.”

 

With that said, Mycroft slowly nudged John out of the way with a mild touch to his shoulder, which left John with a quick shiver at the contact. Smoothly, Mycroft exited the room, and John was finally able to take a deeper breath once the door has closed behind him.

 

“Don't let my brother scare you, John. I would not allow your removal if it is not what you wished.” Sherlock mentioned softly next to him.

 

Turning to his taller flatmate, John regarded Sherlock with a confused air. Not that he had been scared of the more powerful man, for in any other aspect John would have left full knowing he had killed a man in cold blood, defense or not. But there was the fact that this Familiar was more than keen to stand up against his own family in regards to his welfare, despite what occurrences may happen under Mycroft’s influence.

 

“If you don't want me here any further Sherlock, I would completely understand. Specially with what happened tonight, and me being a “ _warlock_ ” and all.” John paused to air quote that particular word with distaste.

 

“Why would you think I do not want you here because of that?” Sherlock tilted his head, and finally those ears of his darted forwards in mild surprise. “I knew you were one since Bart’s.”

 

In the back of John’s mind, a woman reminded him.

 

_You reek._

 

Oh gods. Sherlock had known from the start that John was a magical user. Apparently, Familiars could actually smell magic-users.

 

“I...I just thought...you...me…” John stuttered, unable to form a proper sentence.

 

“You thought that me being a Familiar would have made me uncomfortable in your presence because you were not entirely human? _Boring._ ” Sherlock waved John off as he moved to take off his coat, giving a stretch of his shoulders as his tail uncoiled and shook itself out.

 

“Your...okay with it?” John stammered again, watching him.

 

“You would not be here if I did not wish it, John Watson. You being a warlock has left me with no desire to remove you from the premises. If anything, your skill-set only makes you that much more interesting and worthwhile to The Work. It is not every day that anyone finds a level four that had no prior knowledge or tutelage of their talent. Where as yours…” Sherlock paused after flopping onto his couch, using his own tail to point in John’s direction. “Your talent happens to be... _enlightening_.”A smirk was given, at his own attempt at humor.

 

John couldn't help but let out a small tired huff of a laugh, it had been such a long day…

 

“Go to bed, John. I think you deserve your rest for the night.”

 

John was unable to argue that, hanging up his own coat left him with a yawn before moving to take the stairs up to his room. He could really use a long sleep after everything that had happened.

 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” He mentioned as he made his way up.

 

Sherlock did not reply at first, waiting till after John had left the room and the sound of a closing door allowed Sherlock to believe his flatmate was out of earshot.

 

Stretching himself out along his couch, Sherlock got himself comfortable, perching both hands under his chin as he regarded the ceiling with a thoughtful glance before closing his eyes and letting out a soft sigh.

 

“Goodnight, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends, That Familiar Feeling's version of "The Blind Banker", it only took me eight chapters even with skipping major scenes and making up my own.
> 
> Apologies for the long delay in an update to this story, but sadly as it may, life happens to force one to prioritize things. Though it is still my promise to you my few readers, I will not let this story go without an end. I love my versions of Sherlock and John to much to do so.
> 
> So, thank you again, and I hope to see you next time. =)


	9. The cat out of the bag.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “On one condition.”
> 
> “And that is?”
> 
> “You are not allowed to laugh.”

Frequently John found himself wondered if living in 221B was either frantic, interesting, or downright frustrating. Maybe a little from all three. But, it was never boring, and that was certainly a plus. 

It had been a few months since their first “case” together, and John had slowly been enveloped into the atmosphere of living with Sherlock like a small planet finding its rightful spot orbiting around a dark, but furiously burning sun. 

That planetary thought had John giggling around his toothbrush as he brushed his teeth in their shared bathroom. Sherlock, for all his talk about that precious “mind palace” of his, had accidently leaked to John about his knowledge of their solar system. Or, lack thereof. Like a good friend, John had spent at least an hour and two glasses of tea heckling the detective with planet jokes and bad puns. The lanky Familiar had finally drooped into a proper pout on the couch with ears backed permanently against his skull before John finally took pity on him.

With a watery smirk in the mirror, John grabbed his towel and cleaned himself off. After, allowing himself a deep breath to stretch his lungs before he exited the bathroom and into the flat proper. Sherlock was no-where to be seen, but as John had quickly found out, that was not an unusual occurrence. The Familiar tended to be flighty at best, and figured that something at Bart’s had more than likely caught his friend’s attention. 

Hopefully he didn't bring back another head this time. There just wasn't that much fridge space.

That particular specimen was still currently taking up room when John peeked into their fridge to see what he had in terms of making himself breakfast. After John had originally got over his shock, and disgust, the head was slowly becoming easier to ignore. Though he still refused to touch it, and reminded himself to tell Sherlock to get rid of it soon. With a slight sigh, John carefully reached around to grab his jar of jam. At least that particular food product was safely sealed enough for John’s comfort. Toast it is, then.

As his tea steeped, and the bread toasted, John pondered on his day off. Luckily, after the events of the kidnapping, he was able to speak to Sarah once she had calmed down. Even if he didn't get a girlfriend out of the deal, he had been able to talk her into letting him work. He could no longer practice true surgery, but there was always a need for a doctor for simple head colds and the frequent upset stomach. All of which John could easily work while keeping his gloves on, and he was really only working two or three days at best as of right now. Just to get back into the swing of things, as Sarah had put it during their conversation.

John did have a very brief thought that the EOAA, Equal Opportunities for All Act, might have something to do with it. Sarah couldn't have completely refused him a job that his Magical Awareness would not have been a factor against him. John shrugged a mental shoulder in thought, either or. Not that he would have fought her against it if she had decided on the other turnabout excuse. A job was a job, and John was happy to have one.

Soon after, with jam covered toast safely tucked between his teeth, tea in one free hand, and the other grabbing his laptop off the table, John got comfortably seated within his chair. With laptop balanced atop his knees, the toast was easily devoured with a few bites. While enjoying his still warm tea, John opened up the laptop to find that his blog had well over 153 new replies to his longest entry yet, “A Study in Pink”.

John had no idea that his blogging of their adventure was going to be received with so many interested people asking him questions, or simply commenting on their mini-adventure. At first it had been a small following, but now hits on his blog was constantly rising every day. He originally was going to disregard the entire blogging idea along with him dismissing his therapist. Then he had found himself one late night after Sherlock had slumped into a mind palace stupor, writing till nearly daylight.

Softly humming to himself between sips of tea, John gave the blog’s comments a few quick browses over before telling himself he’ll try and answer some of the more interesting comments later. A small reply to his league of followers allowed him to let his viewers know-so. Pausing afterwards, he looked around the empty flat. Without Sherlock around, the flat just seemed really quiet.

But, it also meant that John would be undisturbed, and _un-deduced_ , for a short period of time. Maybe even longer if he was lucky. 

Clicking a new tab to open, John flicked through his history and found where he had left off on a website that covered on basic information regarding Familiars. 

John frowned for a moment into his tea. He was slightly worried that Sherlock would take offense to him being curious. John had also very quickly found out that Sherlock was very quick to anger when it came to any sort of comment, or certain type of approach, that had to deal with his genetic line. John remembered one evening where the Familiar had got absolutely livid over a night where John had asked if he wanted some extra milk from the store.

“ **NOT A CAT, JOHN.** ” Had been flung over a sharply boned shoulder. Then the poor violin had been snatched up and a musical screech echoed after John’s retreating form.

John didn't pick up any milk that night at all.

But, that was all more the reason to look up what information he could find. Frown was quickly turned into slight puzzlement over the realization that he did not want Sherlock to have any other reason to be angry at him. Sad to say, John was still mostly ignorant of Familiars over-all, and yet Sherlock really was no different than living with any other bloke, besides the ears and tail. 

And the random body parts in the fridge, he mentally added with an physical eye roll.

Scrolling down the page he had opened, John skipped the very basic biology for the most part, though he did find where he had stopped previously on a section that spoke of basic traits for those Familiars that had more feline type traits.

Because, Sherlock was a feline type right? The ears and tail were dead giveaways, John thought.

This section covered basic ear types, tails, eyes, and “extra” fur, to identify the similar gene traits. John had never seen Sherlock’s pupils constrict in harsh light, and he was pretty sure that he only had fur on the ears and tail sections. 

Not that John had been given an opportunity to know otherwise.

Apparently, the extra attributes were simply that. There was a rather large section at the bottom of the page that explained that regardless of whatever extra pieces a Familiar might own, that did not mean they were closely related in true mannerisms of whatever type they might otherwise portray. To think so, or admit to otherwise, could apparently be seen as rude and disregarding of the individual in question. It was apparently a demeaning act.

No wonder Sherlock had got angry over the milk incident.

Putting his now empty cup of tea on the table, John quickly scrolled past that section of the website with a sigh and small shake of his head. He’d just have to be a little more careful in the future.

It just so happened though, the website’s scrolling suddenly fell upon the words “Shifting” in bold lettering, above a section that John had not got the opportunity to read yet. Squinting slightly, John found himself leaning closer towards the laptop. Having no clue what Shifting actually was, and how it might have something to do with Sherlock.

* * *

_Shifting is an ability of all Familiars, and is a unique and important part of their biology. While the Familiar themselves are not an animal, this statement only portrays the mental intelligence of the Familiar population. All Familiars have the ability to change their body mass into that of the particular genetic trait they have been gifted with, in a way that is very specific to their biology. Though it is only the singular specific form for each individual and can not be changed. Shifting is important to the mental health of all Familiars. While each form is obviously highly different than the other, each belong to the Familiar in the similar manner that each non-Familiar’s body belongs to them. Staying in one or the other form for too long has proven to be stressful to any Familiar, and can easily lead to dramatic mood swings, emotional trauma, depression, and other such mental disabilities._

* * *

“Really Sherlock, you know I adore your violin….most of the time anyways, but must you really play at all hours of the night? Even an old woman like me needs her beauty sleep!”

John quickly snapped the laptop closed on hearing Mrs. Hudson’s voice downstairs, which just as quickly was only the opening act to Sherlock’s dramatic entrance into their flat with the smaller woman following on behind him. She narrowing missed getting hit with his coat as Sherlock slung the heavy material behind him and directly onto the coat hangers. From the look on his face, Sherlock was doing his best to ignore her complaint.

“Oh! John, hello.” All thoughts of abusive tones thrown to the wind when she spotted John, still in his chair. Lifting a hand and giving him a small wave and smile.

While John opened his mouth to reply----

“Yes, yes. Mrs. Hudson, John. John, Mrs. Hudson. Rest assured you two have met before.”

With that said, and a small groan to follow, Sherlock flopped to his couch. Looking as if all the world were out to bore him to tears. Hell to pay if anyone tried to tell him it wasn't.

“Sherlock.” John frowned in his direction.

“Quite. Sherlock, what has got you in such a pout?” Mrs. Hudson was quick to follow up, with just as much disapprovement in her tone as John, crossing her arms over her chest and looking the perfect mother figure.

“Pout? _Pout?!_ ” Sherlock suddenly flung himself to a sitting position, abashed. “Molly had a body of a man who had oculocutaneous albinism, but would not let me take anything home! Some rubbish about the family wanting him whole for his funeral.”

Silence. Mrs. Hudson slowly looked over to John, eyebrow raised questioningly.

“He means Albino.” John softly answered her silent question before turning back to Sherlock. “Can’t you just do some experiment with a rabbit, or rat with the same mutation?”

“It just is _not_ the same.” Sherlock let out a sigh, and flopped completely onto his side on the couch, cheek pressed deep into the cushion. Using his own tail he flung the appendage up towards his face to cover his eyes with the black furred tip.

_The poster-child of dramatic sulk_ , John mentally told himself.

“So!” Mrs. Hudson was quick to recover, ignoring the child-detective to turn to John and give him another one of her welcoming smiles. “What have you been up to today, John?”

“Probably reading more drivel about Familiars from Non-Familiars that have absolutely no idea what they are talking about.” Sherlock droned in answer for John.

Well. That cat is out of the bag….Damn it. Now John’s thoughts were rebelling against his attempt to be more civil. Frowning again, he looked back to Sherlock.

“Maybe the reason you are so moody is because I've never seen you actually shift in the weeks I have been here.”

Sherlock quickly whipped his tail away from his eyes and glared at John. 

“Oh, Sherlock, you haven't went that long again have you?” Mrs. Hudson, prompted. “You know how upset you….”

“ **AND** , I think that is about enough for the day, we are very tired Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock yanked himself from the couch and was quickly attempting to show Mrs. Hudson the door with a soft, yet pressured grip to her shoulders. “Very tired. John is speaking nonsense, clearly hasn't got any rest.”

“But it’s only just past mid-day…” Mrs. Hudson attempted before Sherlock had her completely out their door.

“I’ll be sure to keep it down so you can get your rest too, goodnight!”

**SLAM** went their door, and Mrs. Hudson was no more.

John sighed and gave a small shake of his head while Sherlock stamped his way back to the couch. Before the Familiar had a chance to re-enter his sulk though, John made sure to at least give the conversation a second chance. He was interested after all.

“Seriously Sherlock, maybe it would help?” John tried.

“You just want to see.” Sherlock mentioned after a few moments of silence, to then sit on the couch instead of laying down as he was originally. “You are just curious as to what I look like.”

“Well...yeah but, if it puts you in a better mood, that’s two birds with one stone yeah?”

“Idioms are terribly dull.” Sherlock closed his eyes dismissively.

“And you are trying to change the subject.” John smirked.

Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't respond back with another snide remark. Instead, slowly both ears unfolded from his skull to regard John with a careful look as his eyes slowly opened. John held the gaze, if it was one thing he was good at, it was not backing down. Eventually, the detective let out another small sigh in defeat.

“On one condition.”

“And that is?” John pulled his laptop from his lap to place it on the table, leaning forwards closer to Sherlock in his interest.

“You are not allowed to laugh.” Sherlock raised one hand and a finger to point at John, seriously.

“Pffft.” John blew air out his nose at the notion in a huff. “Laugh? You are probably some lengthy panther-cat or something. Going to try and scare me by leaving me unaware.”

“The correct word you are looking for is melanistic of the panthera genus. But you are wrong on both accounts.” Sherlock was quick to mention as was his usual when correcting someone, but the expression was still one of slight caution when John glanced back to him.

“If you do not want me to laugh, I won’t laugh, Sherlock.”

“Promise me.”

“What are we, twelve? Fine, I promise!” John crossed his arms over his chest and glared in defiance.

“Fine, close your eyes.” Sherlock responded with a small hand wave in John’s direction before he moved to stand.

“Why’s that?” John tilted his head back to regard the very tall Familiar standing over him, which only caused Sherlock to take a deep breath. One of the few attempts that John had seen where Sherlock was trying not to respond too unkindly, even if he had very little patience.

“Because, John. I do not think it is quite enjoyable to suddenly find myself in a set of clothing that is no longer suited for the form I am currently in, and thus must remove myself from them. I am assured that you do not wish for me to undress in front of you, correct?”

“Oh. Uh….Yeah. Fine.” Was it hot in here or was it just…..scratch that, John thought. Then ended up wincing mentally. Bloody cat-puns, shut up brain. 

John noticed that Sherlock was giving him one of those very rare smiles suddenly, before giving another dismissible wave of his hand in John’s direction.

“Well?”

“I said fine, prick.” John scolded with an eye roll before closing them.

John was left in a hazy half-dark void behind his eyelids with only the sound of moving cloth to interrupt. It did not take long before even that noise was gone, and John twisted his head about a few times in the sudden silence as if he could pinpoint exactly where Sherlock was at.

“You had better not be playing a joke on me, Sherlock.”

Silence.

John sighed, and quietly tapped his fingers atop his knee in an attempt to fill the time with at least some other noise within the room. John really did not like the quiet. Didn’t shifting make some sort of noise or something? This entire situation was very quickly turning rather awkward.

In reality, John did not wait too long when he was suddenly met with a low-pitched sound.

“ _Mrrrowl._ ”

…..What the bloody fucking adorable was that.

John was almost scared to open his eyes now. He promised Sherlock he wouldn't laugh. So, taking a slow deep breath, John braced himself and peeked open one eye.

Sherlock had indeed removed his clothes, and they were neatly placed folded on the end of the couch. In the middle of the couch though, was something that John had not been expecting at all.

Well. He had been expecting a cat. But not _this_ cat. Not this cat _at all._

Sherlock was not even a large cat. Not a long, lengthy, slender type of cat that John had been expecting. Instead, on the couch sat a rather half-fluffed creature that was attempting to look as regal as something so fucking cute could possibly be. John had been on the internet enough to know what a cute cat looked like, and Sherlock beat them all, easily.

Black short, yet fluffy, fur covered the entire smaller feline that sat elegantly as possible on the couch. A rounded skull with the small black ears atop it, and a very slightly squished in little nose between fluffy cheeks adorned with the usual whiskers. 

His eyes were definitely the best part. Overly large and round as if they could see the entire world around them, colored in the same tone of Sherlock’s more human form.

_Frozen Sea-foam_ , John suddenly remembered.

But now, the color was even brighter amongst the dark fur, that much more brilliant and intelligent looking on the cat that any other color would have given it.

John had to bite the inside of his cheek, hard enough almost to bring blood.

Due to having one to many cat-loving girlfriends in the past, and the internet, John knew this breed easily. Sherlock was a British Shorthair, _and fuck me sideways, very bloody fucking cute_. 

_I am not going to laugh….I am not going to laugh…._

Very slowly, the ears atop Sherlock’s head slowly backed against his now completely feline skull, before the small creature gave a very human like sigh and letting its feline body slip to the side to flop onto the couch in an exact mimic of earlier.

“Y-Your….British Shorthair….right?” John stammered, damn it all, he was not going to laugh.

Sherlock answered him by giving a single flick of his tail that thumped softly against the couch. Not quite as dramatic as his other form, but very similar. 

“Thats...t-thats okay. Everything is fine. You look very nice, Sherlock.” John attempted, but was very slowly losing the battle.

Instantly the cats eyes darted in his direction, giving John a long quiet look before suddenly yawning and letting out a soft “ _mrrrl_ ” noise during.

John mentally tossed in the towel.

“Damn it Sherlock, you fluffy little tosser.” John suddenly found himself giggling.

Sherlock jumped back up all in a single fluid movement, giving John an instant view of tiny white fangs and a responding “ **Yrrowwwwllll!** ” at the sound of the giggling, with a follow up hiss. John was left with a fuzzy ball of anger when Sherlock’s fur stood up on end. 

He was even more adorable when he was angry!

“I am sorry! I am sorry, Sherlock!” John was giggling hard now, having to hold onto his ribs in an attempt to try and stop. “It...heh...it’s just….not what I hehehehe…..was expecting!”

Sherlock continued to give John the cat-death glare. John was sure that the he was the product of many visuals of how Sherlock might be able to get away with John’s death. But for some reason, the thought of a tiny evil genius cat plotting his death had John laughing even harder.

Sherlock promptly leaped off the couch and began to stalk his way down the hallway to his room, tail high in the air.

“W..heh..W-wait, Sherlock!” John tried getting up out of chair only to find that the laughing had caused him to nearly stumble, where he had to brace himself for a moment before following after the retreating black feline, calling down the hallway. 

“ **COME BACK. I’M GOING TO CUDDLE THE SHITE OUT OF YOU.** ”

With that said, John was now on the floor laughing so hard he was easily in tears.

Sherlock on the other hand, was having none of it. Refusing to look back, the feline stopped at his closed bedroom door and head-butted a section of the bottom wood. John realized very quickly amidst his tear-stained gaze that Sherlock had a some point built himself a small and unnoticeable cat door to his room. A piece of wood swung open into the room, and Sherlock pounced inside as quickly as possible. 

“Aw, Sherlock! I really am sorry!” John was finally able to get out without laughing, though he was now very out of breath. Scooting himself up to the door, he reached forwards and through the cat-door after his friend’s retreat, as if that was actually going to do any good.

John lay on the floor, with one arm partially thrust through the little cat door, reaching around as if he was actually going to find Sherlock this way. It was all very ridiculous, really. Eventually, even John realized this and pulled his leather bound hand back so that he could use the extra leverage and push himself into a sitting position. Twisting about on the wooden floor, he was able to scoot and put his back against the door so that he could lean and catch his breath.

“Okay. Honestly, Sherlock. I really am sorry. I promised not to laugh, and I did. That is entirely my fault…”

“You promised.” Came the annoyed muffled baritone behind the door that John knew now must have been locked, he did not even need to check.

Sherlock must have shifted back, John thought. Turning his head and putting his ear to the door, even if he really did have to do so to hear inside.

“Yeah. I did promise. I’ll make it up to you.” John tried again.

“I want that Albino’s liver.”

“Are you still on about…? Ugh.” John thumped his head against the door. “I’m not going to let you guilt trip me into illegally obtaining human organs.”

“What about a kidney? Surely they won’t miss one of them.”

“No, Sherlock...just...I am sorry, but no.”

John felt a mimicked thump against the door, though slightly higher up than his own head. Sherlock must have moved to sit down against the door in a similar manner as he had.

“But I mean it.” John tried again. “I am sorry I laughed at you. But...you must know I don’t really mean to make fun of you, right? I am ‘kinda rubbish really at this whole magic and Familiar business.”

“Obvious.” Sherlock answered back. 

“Don’t be cheek, I mean it.” John turned quiet after that, looking down at the floor thoughtfully. Now that he had got over the initial “shock” of seeing Sherlock shift, he was now more worried about accidentally having truly offended his friend. It was the entire reason he had even been looking up the information online in the first place.

_I’m an arsehole_ , John thought.

“No, you are not.” Came from behind the door.

“Are Familiar’s mind readers?” John answered back after a moment.

“No. But it was an easy enough guess.” A soft dark chuckle.

“I thought you said you never guess.” John mentioned but then had a sudden...urge? Thought? He wasn't sure. Slowly, John scooted around where he could reach inside the cat door once more, holding his palm up and outstretched to where he hoped that Sherlock was actually at.

“Friends?”

Silence.

John gave a soft sigh after a minute and was about to pull his hand back through the small door before suddenly he felt a pressure through the leather of his glove, longer fingers wrapping around his hand and giving a small squeeze. Though Sherlock didn't respond, it was about as close as John was going to get to an acceptance to his apology than anything else.

They ended up holding hands, through a doorway for a few minutes before John eventually cleared his throat.

“So, um...tea? I could go for some.”

“Only if you make me a cup.”

“ _Obvious._ ” John droned, as he lowered his voice in a very bad impression of his flat-mate.

_No. Friend._ Something in John’s mind corrected him, once more.

Another deep snicker came from behind the door.

“Very.”

* * *

Somewhere, far away from John and Sherlock’s cozy little flat, a small Chinese woman sat in front of a computer in the dark, the glow of the screen the only light source available within the small room. 

“Without you, we would never had made it into London…”

She paused, on the screen she watched a mirror image of herself, the glow and dark making her look almost as old as she felt. But her attention was more-so on the section next to her mime’s video.

A black box, with only a type-box under it.

**YOUR GRATITUDE IS IRRELEVANT.**

The woman stayed silent for the moment it took for the words to be typed out. Dipping her head down towards her collarbone in what she hoped was a meek impression.

“We did not anticipate…”

**ALSO IRRELEVANT. AND BORING.**

“I promise, we...I, won’t reveal your identity.” Another small desperate act to save face.

**I HAVE ALREADY BEEN ASSURED YOU WILL NOT.**

“What…?”

She barely had time to hear the gunshot or the breaking of glass before she could hear, nor think, no longer.

Somewhere else, even farther from there, a hissing laugh could have easily been heard shortly after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a scene I have been wanting to write for ages.  
> I figured a little fluffy was needed after all the drama chapters!
> 
> But I couldn't help myself with at least adding a little bit of dark to the end. Heh.
> 
> Thank you again my few readers, you mean the world to me!  
> And once again, I may be slow, but I wont give up on this!
> 
>  


	10. Quid Pro Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Go play with your head and leave me be. I’m done with the fucking cutlery.”

**BANG.**

 

…..What.

 

**BANG.**

 

**BANG. BANG. BANGBANGBANG...**

 

No, seriously. What...the... _HELL!_

 

John had been enjoying some quiet time in front of his computer, finally trying to get through as many replies on his blog so that he did not seem rude, but the gunshots from their downstairs living room was just not having any of it. In a single smooth movement, John thrust back away from his desk, sprung out of chair, and thumped his way downstairs to skid to a stop at the landing, only slightly out of breath from the quick movement.

 

Sherlock, was casually standing in the middle of the room peering to the far wall with a slight curious tilt to his head, tail waving slowly back and forth behind what John had figured out was his favorite blue dressing gown. (One was lucky to see the detective in anything other than his two usual outfits for either outside, or home.) On hearing John though, both ears perked up atop his head and he pointed to the wall he had been looking at while he looked towards John.

 

Needless to say, he used John’s gun to point at the wall, to John’s stunned disbelief.

 

“Does that look right to you?” Sherlock asked through John’s silent inner attempt not to blow up. Slowly, he moved his head to look at their living room wall where, of all things, a smiley face had been spray painted in that god-awful yellow color.

 

Bullet holes lined inside the yellow paint as best as someone who had _randomly stolen his bloody fucking gun_ could have.

 

“Oh no mate, I think you’ve gone a bit too far to the left there----No. You know what. I am not even playing this game. What the _absolute fuck_ , Sherlock?!” John sputtered at his flat-mate.

 

Sherlock, whom while had many events in his life where he was yelled at for whatever reason, still did not react very well to the raised tone. One would think the Familiar would be used to it by this time in his life, but with a quick glare and a whip of his tail, Sherlock had already flung the gun’s direction back towards the wall.

 

“I’m!” **BANG.** “Bored!” **BANG**.

 

John’s inner soldier was not reacting well to gunshots, and while he visibly cringed with being closer to the sound, he still was able to sling himself forwards and grab onto Sherlock’s hand that held the gun out. Luckily, he still had his gloves on.

 

“Stop that now! Do you want people to call the police?!” He snarled up at his flatmate.

 

Instinctively Sherlock swiveled his head in a sharp twitch to send that previous glare straight into John’s face, but something Sherlock saw there made him pause. John could almost feel the detective’s eyes reading over his flustered expression as he huffed. Slowly, Sherlock uncoiled his hand from the gun’s grip, allowing John to fully grab the weapon to unload the clip. Only then was he able to take a full breath, that he let out in a rough whoosh, pocketing both.

 

Sherlock had already made his way back over to his couch to make an almost equal whooshing sound as his body slumped into the cloth and he flung his head back across the back of the couch dramatically.

 

“Anything would be better than this boredom! Don’t criminals have crimes they need to commit sometime this next century?” He cried in lament.

 

“That is no reason to take out your frustration on Mrs. Hudson’s wall.” John replied, as if he was scolding a moody teenager, looking towards the wall with a worried expression. “She is going to have a fit…”

 

Sherlock slung his arm out towards the direction of the wall blindly, pointing.

 

“The wall had it coming.”

 

“Saying nasty things about your family now, was it?” John muttered sarcastically as he made his way into the kitchen, this situation was already way too far-gone for him to continue without tea in his system so that he could function.

 

“If it was speaking about my brother, at least then I might have been amused for a few minutes.” Sherlock answered towards John’s retreating backside while twisting himself on the couch where he could stretch out and put his head onto the armrest, closing his eyes.

 

John was done playing this game until he had a nice hot cuppa in his grasp though. Maybe something to eat along with it, and so he opened the fridge to browse its intake.

 

Sherlock was met with a sudden bout of silence from the kitchen area, causing him to peek a single eye open and look towards John’s direction, where he had paused on opening the fridge door.

 

Taking a deep slow breath, John slowly closed the fridge and stepped back into the living room.

 

“Mind explaining _that_?”

 

“What is there to explain, John? It’s a head. Human, in fact. If it isn’t too hard for you to tell.” Sherlock blinked up at him. How on earth could he both act sarcastic and look innocent at the same time?!

 

“And why in bloody hell is a head making it’s home in our fridge instead of the body it is supposed to be attached to?!” John growled, his patience all but gone now, regardless of his earlier attempt to remain calm after the gun incident.

 

“Experiment.”

 

“Please tell me you haven’t murdered someone, Sherlock.” John was actually starting to look concerned now.

 

Sherlock felt the extreme urge to roll his eyes, while muttering “Idiot.” under his breath. Using a free arm he pushed himself back up into a proper sitting position, and took a second before answering to run a hand back through his curls around his ears, which flickered atop their skull, rather than remain lying flat. Tail was sent to thump against the couch at his side.

 

“No. I did not murder someone, John.” Sherlock responded slowly, as if speaking slower would actually help in the understanding process. “Besides, what fun would that be? I need someone else to do the murdering so I can do the solving. That is how _this_ ,” a wild swing of the room with a hand “,whole thing works.”

 

John simply stared at Sherlock, before pointing back at the fridge rather roughly in indication.

 

“Ugh, fine.” Sherlock sighed. “I got it from Bart’s.”

 

“Got, or stole?” John crossed his arms in front of his chest, every bit the disapproving parent in this situation.

 

“What's the difference?” Every bit the sarcastic moody teenager, as thought previously.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Borrowed?” Sherlock decided to give John his best smirk with that answer.

 

With a sigh, and most importantly, without tea, John made his way over to his chair and flopped into it in very much the same manner as his currently frustrating friend normally did with his own couch.

 

“John.”

 

Slowly, John opened his eyes and found his flatmate looking at him curiously once more. One ear flopped over to the side in an almost comical thinking manner, before it sprung back up to mimic the other once the Familiar noticed John had given him his attention once more.

 

“I did not steal the head, Molly said I have to return it in three days. Is this acceptable?”

 

Curiously, the detective actually looked like he was being sincere. Though it did not keep John from giving him a raised eyebrow and half-glare at the answer. Sherlock though, did not give up, looking at John as if he would keep up this staring contest till the end of his days. Another cat-like quality that John tossed onto the ever growing mental list. But, he gave Sherlock a eye-roll of his own before responding.

 

“It’s all fine, Sherlock.”

 

“Good!” The Familiar clapped his hands and suddenly thrust himself off the couch. Ears perking up atop his skull. “With that business settled, I’ve got a better idea to pass the time.”

 

“Going to try to make the head talk by pushing air up through its neck and moving the tongue around?” John mentioned, offhandedly. Withholding the sigh he wanted to emit, because by this point one must press on into the eye of the storm, he thought.

 

“No.” Sherlock paused, looking down at John curiously. “Well…”

 

“No, Sherlock. Nothing with the head.” John replied hurriedly, in a far more serious manner, with quick shake of his head. “Just, no.”

 

“I will have you know, that my idea had nothing to do with the head in the first place. But, I am now curious to know what decomposition does to the actual use of the vocal cords, how he would sound different…Interesting.” Sherlock slowly muttered off, with a hand tapping his chin thoughtfully before swooping into the direction of the kitchen.

 

“Sherlock! **NO**. **HEAD**.”

 

“I wouldn't dare think of it, John!” Sherlock replied from the kitchen with a sudden sharp laugh.

 

John brought a hand up to his face to slowly run it down with a groan. All he had wanted to do was have a nice day in, blog a bit, a nice warm cup of tea….

 

Sherlock suddenly erupted into his field of vision again as he sat back down hurriedly onto his couch, holding out a single metal fork in his hand towards John, whom could only blink at the eating utensil for a few moments before looking slowly back up to Sherlock’s face with a dead expression that could have mimicked the one going on in the fridge at this exact moment.

 

“I’ve changed my mind.”

 

“John, it is quid pro quo…” Sherlock tried.

 

“Go play with your head and leave me be. I’m done with the fucking cutlery.”

 

“John!”  Sherlock whined. Actually whined at him! “If we are going to be living together, like we have already mentioned before, it is important that we are comfortable with one another. It was the whole reason behind letting you look over my ears in the first place. Now it’s my turn.”

 

John grumbled softly while looking away towards the window.

 

“Do you want to look at my tail, after?”

 

“No, Sherlock!” John said a little too roughly while turning back to Sherlock. “Wait. I mean...How would you even be okay with that? I don't need to look at every extra body part to trust you, Sherlock. You being a Familiar doesn't change anything between us.”

 

“Oh.” Sherlock replied, though a tad more softly and with pause, as if he honestly was not expecting that sort of answer. Eventually though, he raised the fork back up.

 

“I still want to see, it is only fair.”

 

Well, there was that moment gone.

 

“This is not a game of ‘I showed you mine, now you show me yours.’, Sherlock.” John mentioned, though the harshness of his tone had lowered. “I don’t want to accidently hurt you.”

 

“You mentioned trust, John.” Sherlock held out the fork in his direction even further. “I already know you are not going to hurt me.”

 

John knew Sherlock had him at that point, slowly he pulled off his glove and twisted his hand around to look down at his own palm. The skin of his hand while still holding some of the tan he had acquired from Afghanistan still seemed to him a paler than it should have been, specially towards his wrist.

 

“This is a bad idea…” John muttered, even as he reached for the utensil in Sherlock’s hand, which if anyone would care to add, was holding onto the metal utensil without any protection what-so-ever.

 

Sherlock simply waggled the fork mid-air, in a ‘hurry-up’ expression.

 

Taking a breath and holding it, John grabbed the forked end that was being held out to him, and closed his eyes, expecting to hear a yelp of pain from his friend due to electric shock.

 

Surprise, surprise, when nothing of the sort actually happened.

 

Blinking his eyes open, he found a grinning Sherlock in front of him, still holding onto his end without pain.  His face a-glow with his brightest “I really am the smartest creature on the planet.” pride.

 

“See? Nothing. I conclude that your magical discharge-” John cringed at that. “-is directly tied into your emotions. Nothing new when it comes to magical skill. You know I will not hurt you, and you know you are not trying to hurt me. Thus, perfectly safe.”

 

“But, the doctor…” John mentioned softly while looking down to his hand still grabbed onto the plain metal. Thoughts went turning back towards his first memories back in the hospital.

 

“Let me deduce. You wake up, thinking you should be currently in a warzone, only to find yourself in a building you do not recognize with people that you also do not recognize, and you felt threatened, regardless of being in a hospital setting.” Sherlock voiced John’s current thoughts, though with a bit more detail than John would have liked.

 

“Yeah, I guess you can say that.” John replied with the still soft tone to his voice while he looked back up to Sherlock.

 

“Of course your newly found magical ability would have reacted. You might even be able to take the gloves off for good!” Sherlock suddenly raised his voice in a surprisingly cheerful manner at having once again correctly deduced the situation, and just as suddenly used his other free hand to whip it around and clasp onto John’s ungloved wrist with a snap that in all other counts could have been seen as a friendly gesture between two fellows having a grand ‘ole time.

 

Instead, the sudden action caused John to go rigid with instinctive reaction with the almost violent movement, and Sherlock to suddenly yelp in pain as small arches of electricity latched onto the Familiar’s hand with deadly accuracy.

 

“Sherlock!” John yelled while snatching his hand back, only to find the detective himself had been thrown back into the couch with such force that the entire thing had fallen over backwards, with Sherlock included, now with his feet pointed at the ceiling.

 

John quickly rose up out of his chair and bound over their small table to look over the fallen couch at his friend.

 

Sherlock was lying on his back, blinking up at the ceiling with little emotion, without very much other movement to be had. Shock, would have been a slight term to describe the view.

 

“Sherlock! Are you alright?” John leaned over the couch as far as he dared, lest he fall over it himself. Concern etched across every feature of his face.

 

Sherlock’s blinking slowly quickened as his mind caught up with his body, and he found him slowly looking over to John, with that same curious expression.

 

“Where did the fork go?”

 

John let out quick breath that he did not even realize he had been holding.

 

“You idiot. This is exactly why I didn't want to do this.” John was careful to hold out his other gloved hand to his friend to help him back up.

 

“Nothing to worry about, John.” Sherlock reached up to grab the offered hand so that he could pick himself off of the floor / fallen couch. “It was just a miscalculation on my part. The sudden movement of course would have caused your ability to activate in self defense at the surprise. I’ll know better in the future.” All said while he sat the couch back up into its proper standing position.

 

Only then did her hear John’s muffled giggling.

 

Slowly, Sherlock turned his head towards his flatmat to find John covering his mouth with his un-gloved hand, holding back his snickers as if his life depended on it. It very well might be, considering one thing Sherlock hated was to be laughed at.

 

“What is so funny?” He asked darkly, and John was left to start a series of coughing as he was slowly failing keeping from laughing.

 

This was about the time that Mrs. Hudson had finally arrived home from her book-club meeting.

 

“Boys! The neighbors outside are saying they heard gunshots earlier! I was out! Is everything…..” She had paused on throwing open the door, to stare between both Sherlock and John as if a deer caught in headlights. Though, with a second look at Sherlock, even she had to throw a hand up to her mouth with a near-silent “Oh!”

 

Of course, she started to laugh almost instantly after.

 

“Sherlock dear! What in the world have you done to your poor _hair_?!” She half-screeched in her frantic giggles.

 

Sherlock’s eyes grew almost as wide as Mrs. Hudson’s had been, and he instantly whirled himself down their hallway to their bathroom. It was where the closet mirror in the flat was located. In the mean-time, John had completely lost it. Falling back in his chair he had to hold both arms at his sides as he laughed.

 

It was hard not to when every single curl on Sherlock’s head had stuck out into a massive fringe, as if he had stuck his finger into a light socket. Just like out of the cartoons that John used to watch when he was younger. You couldn't even see his ears in the huge poof ball his hair had turned into.

 

“ **JOHN. I AM GOING TO MURDER YOU.** ”

 

Which only made Mrs. Hudson to giggle even harder into her palms that she now held up against her face to try and hold them in. Sherlock came whirling back down the hallway to point at John’s still laughing form in only the most dramatic fashion, with his gown billowing out from behind him.

 

Flopping, frizzy hair and all.

 

“I am going to murder you, and no one will ever find the body! I know exactly how! You know I do!”

 

“Oh come off it, Sherlock! Your hair will be just fine!” John giggled up at him after a few moments of catching his breath.

 

“Oh, Sherlock!” Suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Hudson from behind him, looking oddly at the rear-end of his gown, her face having gone slightly red from laughing.

 

“What now Mrs. Hudson?! Can't you see I am plotting murder here?!” Sherlock snapped back at his landlady, twirling about to face her.

 

That’s when John got a glimpse of Sherlock’s tail when that blue dressing gown wafted upwards within his movement.

 

“The carpet matches the drapes!” John cackled. It appeared that Sherlock’s tail had also flared into an equally massive electric shock-state. With every bit of his fur standing completely on end.

 

Sherlock blinked, grabbed onto his gown, and yanked it to the side to peer at his tail. A shocked expression flew into the features of that finely boned face, only to wither into a snarl as he threw his head back to yell at the ceiling.

 

“ **I SHALL MURDER YOU ALL.** ”

 

And then the world outside exploded.

 

* * *

 

_A maddening and confusing hour later..._

 

* * *

 

John paused in his sweeping to close his eyes and give a small shake of his head. There was still glass on the floor and John was not quite sure he’d ever get the entire mess cleaned up properly. He would have to be careful walking around barefoot for weeks now.

 

Luckily, no one had been hurt in the explosion outside. A number of different windows on the street had been completely destroyed, and that included their own. That had been the worst of the ordeal for the most part. Mrs. Hudson had been in their doorway, and was clear of the glass blast that while having hit Sherlock and John, had only left them with a scrape or two, mostly from having been thrown from their feet.

 

A gas leak. Sure, whatever.

 

When the police had showed up, Sherlock completely disappeared without much trace back into his bedroom. Leaving John to the explaining that no, there was no gun-shots before the explosion. Complete hogwash. People always did try to turn a bad situation worse in the most unlikely events. Oh, we’re fine. Nothing to worry about here.

 

It might have been enough for them to finally leave John alone, and escort Mrs Hudson back to her own flat, but it did leave a wary looking Lestrade that made the perfect excuse to stay behind and help John. Curiously, John peered from the kitchen to watch as the Inspector Familiar was currently helping to board up their window for the time being, until they got it replaced.

 

After the last board, Lestrade placed his hands behind his back to allow himself a stretch that easily popped a few bones before he turned around to notice that John had been watching him. Blinking those oddly yellow-gold looking eyes, he then turned an award winning smirk on and ran his fingers back through his silver and pepper colored hair.

 

“Had it all my life, if you are curious.”

 

“Oh! I wasn’t. I mean…” Stumbled John at having been caught. The last thing John needed was another Familiar that thought he was racist.

 

“But I ain't about to step into someone else’s territory if you get my meaning.” Lestrade gave a small jerk of his head into hallway’s direction where Sherlock’s room was located.

 

Wait another bloody second here, John thought.

 

“Why does everyone think me and him...and...ugh.” John shook his head swiftly while leaning the broom against the wall and making his way back over to his chair, which he took a moment to sweep over with his hand just incase he had missed any glass from having set it upright before. Afterwards, he flopped down into it with a gruff sigh.

 

“Sorry mate, assumptions had to be made.” Lestrade gave John a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Me and the other mates figured it would be the only reason anyone could stand being around him for any longer period of time. Let alone live here. He’s a good bloke mind you, but quite aggravating on the soul.”

 

“ _You_ , don’t even know the half of it.” Good thing they hadn't decided to check the fridge, John suddenly remembered.

 

“So, you are blogging for him now?” Lestrade moved to sit on Sherlock’s couch, to lean over his knees slightly towards John.

 

“Oh! Yes.” John started at the change of conversation. “You saw that?”

 

“Of course we did! We are all reading it.” Lestrade gave John another grin, before leaning even further forwards with a whisper behind a cupped palm. “Does he really not know about the whole, sun and earth, thing?”

 

A sudden loud clearing of the throat was heard before John was able to give a proper answer, leaving the two of them to quickly lean back from one another and stare wide-eyed towards the hallway. Sherlock seemed to be casually leaning against the wall, having re-dressed into a tight purple shirt that John had only seen him wear once or twice before. His arms were crossed, and was clearly giving John a evil-eyed glare. At least he had by now got both his hair and his tail under control from their earlier static shock, the latter lashing behind him angrily.

 

“My brother deleted anything involving the solar system many years ago, I am afraid.” Came a dark smooth tone from the other doorway.

 

In a similar movement from before, except three pairs of eyes this time and not two, found them looking towards the doorway to find Mycroft standing, as if he had been there the entire time. Leaning slightly on that umbrella he always seemed to be carrying around. Dressed in his usual business attire.

 

“Today just keeps getting better, and better…” Sherlock muttered darkly before turning away from his brother and head over to his couch, only to pause and glare down at Lestrade. “Off.”

 

Lestrade simply rolled his eyes and moved to stand, clearing the way for Sherlock to sling himself onto his couch, re-cross his arms, and give a loud huff of aggravation at the entire scenario. Tail moving to wrap around both his legs and twist in an almost violent manner.

 

“Everything is fine here, Mycroft.” John mentioned over to the older brother, which caused that same unnerving gray gaze to shift over to him in a casual manner. “No one got hurt or anything.”

 

“I have been assured many times by my brother, John, that he can take care of his own, --”

 

“Yet you still keep showing up!” Complained Sherlock despairingly in interruption.

 

“---But, my presence here is more of the business sort.” Mycroft continued, ignoring his younger brother’s antics. Lifting one arm to give a small shrug, before giving John a small smile, condescendingly _._

 

“The answer is no.” Sherlock continued, regardless of being ignored.

 

Without regarding Sherlock, Mycroft slowly stepped into the room so that he could offer a folder in John’s direction. “A civil servant, named Andrew West, was found dead this morning on the Battersea Station tracks. Head completely smashed in.”

 

Lestrade, grumbled softly. “ _And why haven't I heard of this…?”_

 

Startled, John took the folder from Mycroft, wondering where exactly had he pulled the folder from, because he had not remembered seeing the older brother having held it before. Which only caused Mycroft to give a small huff of amusement as if John was just another source of amusement.

 

Opening the folder, John took a minute to flip through a few pages while Lestrade quietly made his way around behind the chair so that he could attempt to look over John’s shoulder.

 

“Jumped in-front of a train?” Lestrade mentioned off-handedly shortly after his spying.

 

“Logical assumption.” Another small shrug from Mycroft.

 

“But, you would not be here if that were the case.” John answered in third, peering back up to the older brother.

 

“You idiots will never solve anything at this rate.” Sherlock snarled, and leaned forwards in a fell swoop to snatch the folder from John’s hands, and just as quickly hid himself behind it while quickly flipping through it’s contents.

 

Mycroft only gave a small sigh, before placing both hands back atop his umbrella and straightening his stance.

 

“The M.O.D. has been working on a new missile defense system, the Bruce-Partington Programme. Andrew West was in possession of a very _particular_ memory stick, which has now gone missing.”

 

Sherlock gave a louder huff of amusement of his own at the last statement.

 

“It was _not_ , the only one, _Sherlock_.” Mycroft finally glared over to his brother Familiar, his patience slowly growing thinner by the minute. But, that wasn't very unusual when dealing with the Familiar in question.

 

Sherlock simply lifted his head out of the hidden tomb of the folder to give Mycroft a sarcastic smirk.

 

“Do not make me order you.” Mycroft lifted a hand to point at Sherlock, with a small shake, something that instantly wiped the smirk off of Sherlock’s face. “We must have those plans back, for obvious reasons. They can not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.”

 

“Like you could even _try_ to force _me_.” Sherlock growled back at Mycroft then, all amusement gone with the sudden threat. Causing both John and Lestrade to lean back slightly at the sudden change.

 

“I don't have to.” Mycroft replied back with a much more calmer air, slowly he turned back to John, to give him that same smile from before, like oil on water. “Isn't that right, John? I will be seeing you _both_ , very soon.”

 

With that said, Mycroft did not even give a moment’s notice to rest of them, as he turned and made his way back out the door, as quietly as he came. Lestrade, on the other hand, quickly stepped over to the door to peek out, only for his eyes to get wide and his head to jerk back and forth across the outside foyer. Giving a smaller shiver.

 

“Where the bloody hell did he go?” He paused, to look back inside at John and Sherlock.

 

“And he says I am the _dramatic_ one.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

“Oh!” Lestrade suddenly exclaimed, before running down their stairs and out of sight for a few moments before returning with a small white envelope within his hands, that he held out to Sherlock. “Looks like he left you this.”

 

“Hm.” Sherlock hummed as he took the offered envelope, holding it up before him into a sun shaft that sneaked through the boards over their broken window, to read the print more properly. “Not his handwriting…”

 

John half lifted himself up out of his chair so he could lean forwards and take a closer look at the envelope in question. Across the front of the envelope, was very clearly written ‘Sherlock Holmes’ in a spiraled elegant handwriting.

 

“She has pretty handwriting.” John mentioned as an afterthought.

 

“She?” Lestrade questioned.

 

“In this small manner, John is actually quite correct.” Sherlock muttered, causing John to give him a quick sideways glare at the small jab.

 

Casually while he continued to peer at every angle of the envelop, Sherlock pointed towards their mantle. Turning his head, John noticed that the Familiar was pointing towards a letter opener. Sighing, he pulled himself out of his chair to fetch the instrument for Sherlock, while doing his best to ignore the small smirk that Lestrade had given him for following the silent order.

 

On obtaining the letter opener from John, Sherlock swiftly sliced through the top portion of the paper material, and before Lestrade or John could warn him further, emptied the contents into his palm.

 

Out fell, a single, small pink cellphone.

 

“Huh. I wouldn't have taken you for a fellow that likes pink.” Lestrade mentioned.

 

“Wait.” John snapped his fingers, and pointed at the small device. “We’ve seen that before, the last case. Didn't that dead woman like the color pink?”

 

“This can not be her cellphone. This one is brand new.” Sherlock softly replied while ignoring Lestrade’s earlier snark. Clicking the phone open they find surprisingly it is completely charged, and the front screen began to flicker with a unopened digital envelope. Thus stating a new message has yet to be heard. A voice message stated shortly after that - _You have one new message_.

 

All three of them, two Familiars and one Magic User, leaned slowly forwards when Sherlock clicked for the message to open, and clicking on it’s speaker function after.

 

Nothing was heard for the few short moments, until suddenly four short pips emitted before a longer lasting fifth played directly afterwards. The message then stops, before a second message suddenly blinks onto the screen, that a new picture had been uploaded into the gallery of the phone not too long ago.

 

Lestrade and John look at one another with questioning glances, while Sherlock remained completely engrossed in the phone itself, clicking to find the picture and quickly opening it. After taking a moment to look at it himself, he turns the phone around so that both John and Lestrade could see the picture itself.

 

The picture seemed simple enough really. An empty, unfurnished room showed a normal looking fireplace along one wall. The wallpaper itself looked aged, and was obviously peeling in some places. Two mirrors were within the room, a taller one propped into the corner casually, and a smaller one above the mantelpiece.

 

“And this is supposed to mean what…?” Lestrade finally asked after looking through the photo.

 

“A warning.” Sherlock clicked the phone closed, and grasped it tightly within his palm, to only then use that same hand to prop his chin up with use of his elbow on his knee. “An obvious warning.”

 

“Maybe not too obvious to the simple folk in the room.” John replied sarcastically.

 

“This!” Sherlock wildly gestured towards their broken window. “Five pips. They’re warning us it’s going to happen again. Some societies use seeds, some orange pips, to give a warning towards whomever they were sending them to.”

 

“Sherlock, please explain…” Lestrade softly begged, with a far more worried tone in his voice as he slowly stood back up into a standing position, hands on his hips. “What, exactly, is going to happen again?”

 

Sherlock took his time by slowly looking between the two of them, though seemed to be completely lacking in his usual _why-do-I-have-to-work-with-idiots_ air. Lifting the phone back up, his fingers slowly clenched even tighter around the small pink phone, before very slowly opening his hand entirely where all five fingers were completely spread, leaving the phone itself to lay open across his palm. Both ears atop his head had fully arisen and were peaked towards the tiny machine, while both his eyes grew larger.

 

“ _Boom_.”

 

And John still had not got his tea. Today was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes yes...I know I do take forever to write.
> 
> But to those of you who do follow this story, and read my work, I just want to say...
> 
> I love you all for taking your time, for reading my little AU.
> 
> You are awesome.
> 
> Till next time! And there will be a next time, I promise!


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